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THE 



BRUISED REED: 

•I 

21 Ulemoir 



OF THE 

V\ 

REV. HENEY MOWES, 

LATE PASTOR OF 

ALTENHAUSEN AND IVENRODE, 
PRUSSIA. 



"They also serve, who only stand and wait."— Miltow., 



REVISED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION OF THE AMEEICAN 
SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION. ^ 



y 



PHILADELPHIA : 

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 

No. 146 CHESTNUT STREET. 



■ HssSv 



Entehed according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, by Her- 
man Cope, Treasurer, in trust for the American Sunday-school 
Union, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern 
District of Pennsylvania. 



STEREOTYPED BY 
L. JOHNSON, PHILADELPHIA. 



C PREFACE. 



The following memoir, though not prepared 
specially for the young, will be found deeply 
interestinoj and instructive to all aojes and classes 
who can appreciate the supports and consola- 
tions of the Christian faith. All must admire 
the meekness, cheerfulness and unwavering trust 
w^ith which the subject of this memoir bowed 
himself under the mighty hand of God. All 
must acknowledge the power of divine grace in 
sustaining our poor, weak nature under disap- 
pointments and trials so manifold and severe — 
and all must rejoice that the quiet sufferer was 
enabled to maintain his confidence steadfast unto 
the end. 

There is much in his biography to instruct 

and excite Sunday-School Teachers. Their 

calling, though inferior and subordinate to that 

3 



4 PREFACE. 

of the ministry, bears a close resemblance to it 
in many important particulars. The love of his 
holy work, his devotion to it, and the struggle 
which it cost him to give it up, are among the 
most striking features in the life and character 
of Mowes; and to imitate him in spirit and 
conduct should be the high aim of every one 
who teaches others the way of ]ife. To invalid 
ministers of the gospel — to the afflicted and care- 
worn — ^to the bereaved and disappointed, this 
little volume will reveal the inexhaustible foun- 
tain of grace and peace — and prove, as we trusty 
the means of comfort and edification. 



MEMOIR 



OF THE 



UEV. HENEY MOWES. 



CHAPTER I. 

Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word ! 

* * * * ¥f 

From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, 
His high endeavour, and his glad success. 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 

COWPEII. 

Henry Mowes was born at Magdeburg, in 
Prussia, February 25th, 1793. He passed his 
early childhood in the midst of privations and 
trials of various kinds. Often did he lament 
that he had never enjoyed a parent's love, and 
that, as a child, he had not known the charms 
of home. His father died very early, and his 
mother almost immediately married again. The 
forsaken boy was adopted by an uncle, who was 
a pastor in the neighbourhood. It was, perhaps, 
1* 5 



O MEMOIR OF THE 

the circumstance of his being so early thrown on 
his own resources, that gave to his character 
that decision, that firmness and certainty of aim 
which he afterwards exhibited. 

The support his relatives afforded him was 
scanty. He frequently feared he should, on that 
account, be compelled to relinquish his plan of 
studying theology. He, at one time, had resolved 
to enter the army ; and was only prevented by 
the sudden removal of an officer to whom he 
was much attached, and who had promised to 
obtain his speedy promotion. How entirely 
different might the whole course of his life have 
been, had this determination been carried into 
effect ! But it was itself characteristic of him. 
There was something heroic in the constitution 
of his mind ; an almost invincible valour was 
conspicuous in many events of his hfe. He 
gave proof of this during the short time he was 
a volunteer in his country's service. He fre- 
quently spoke of himself as being, during his 
youth, and still later, till his spirit was changed, 
daring, wild and easily roused to anger. His 
friends of this date bear testimony to his noble, 
open disposition. 

The direction which his life took was in a 
great measure decided by an intimate friendship 
he formed with a young man of the name of 
Charles Blume, at the period of his leaving the 



REV. H. MOVVES. / 

university. Gifted wdth elevated susceptibilities, 
and a quenchless yearning of affection which 
had never yet been satisfied, he threw himself, 
with all the ardour of his nature, into this friend- 
ship. In after-life he looked back on it, as the 
means of softening his heart, and turning him, 
at that age when the passions find an outlet, 
from what was unworthy and low. His friend 
was the whole world to him : his attachment and 
devotedness knew no bounds. After Blume's 
death he could not speak of him without tears. 
The anniversaries of his birth and death were 
sacred days. He still seemed to hold intimate 
and confiding communion with the departed, 
and looked for his spirit, as he tells us in a song 
entitled '' Memory and Hope," to be his con- 
ductor on the other side of the " narrow sea," 
when he should have left its mortal shore. 

With this friend he entered the university of 
Gottingen. He there prosecuted the study of 
theology merely as a science ; he could not 
recollect receiving one Christian impression, so 
entirely had a false religion dried up the sources 
of life. Christianity remained something wholly 
foreign to him — a beautiful exhibition, having 
no connection with himself. A weary task must 
it have been, to study theology as a surgeon dis- 
sects a dead body, where all ought to have been 
life and light. 



8 MEMOIR OF THE 

It was during his residence at the university, 
that the inteUigence of Napoleon's escape from 
Elba reached Gottingen. Mowes shared in the 
universal sensation. Like the celebrated Korner, 
he grasped at the same time the lyre and sword, 
animating the enthusiasm of the Prussian youth 
with his spirit-stirring songs, and sharing in per- 
son the conflicts of the field. The excitement 
was everywhere felt. The people rose as one 
man, the universities were deserted, the students 
pressing forward as volunteers to swell the ranks 
of the army. Mowes and his friend fought in 
the foremost rank of a Westphalian corps. Six 
weeks after they had left Gottingen, they met 
the enemy on the plains of Ligny. He after- 
wards, in speaking of the distance his spirit then 
habitually was from God, said, " The solemnity 
of the battle did not drive me to Him. I do 
not recollect even offering up one prayer. We 
were called up before the engagement to receive 
the sacrament. I let my friend, whose side I 
had never before left, go up without me; I 
could not then comprehend of what service it 
could be to me.'' He felt not the slightest fear; 
and often remarked, that he trembled more in 
delivering his first sermon, than at the thunder 
of his first battle. 

The two friends continued inseparably side by 
side through that fearful day. Each was alike 



REV. H. MOWES. [) 

anxious to vanquish the enemy and to guard his 
friend. Standing behind a hedge, and firing from 
thence on the foe, they did not perceive that the 
order for retreat had been given, when Blume 
suddenly sank down, exclaiming, " Help me, I 
am wounded : leave me not, Mowes." In his 
surprise and grief, he forgot the battle raging 
around ; death was the least thing he feared ; he 
had but one thought — how he might save his 
friend. Three of his fellow-soldiers, w^ho were 
flying from the field, offered their help, regardless 
of the danger : they laid the wounded man across 
their guns, to carry him to a place of safety. 
The enemy gained on them; they bore their 
charge on, under a shower of bullets. Two of 
them began at last to think of their own safety, 
and left him. He continued his labour with the 
one who remained firm. One more step, and a 
bullet from the approaching enemy struck the 
helmet from his head. Now the last fled. Mowes 
had eye and heart for his friend alone : he begged 
him to hold fast by his arm, while he dragged 
him along by his clothes. Shortly after he felt a 
concussion in his arm ; the hand of his friend 
fell from it — a second ball had struck him. 
" Mowes," said he, " save thyself, for thy king 
and thy country; I am lost." One parting 
glance, and the friends separated, as they thought, 
forever. Mowes went on mechanically, with an 



10 MEMOIR OF THE 

aching heart, not perceiving that he was exposed 
to the full charge of the enemy; but a bullet 
striking the sole of his boot brought him to him- 
self: he felt he ought not uselessly to expose his 
life, and hastened after his flying comrades. 

He fought at Belle Alliance, and exhibited 
great energy, both in the privations he endured 
and in his active service. He was almost daily 
engaged in skirmishes before Paris. For nearly 
three days he had nothing to eat but a dried 
plum, which was given to him by a fellow-soldier, 
who had found two in a peasant's hut. He had 
often no other lodging than the bare ground, wet 
with the rain of heaven ; not once did a cloak 
cover his weary limbs. He would wilhngly re- 
count the events of the great struggle : the man- 
ner in which he threw himself into his subject; 
the interest, the actual share, he seemed to have 
in every occurrence ; the richness of his own 
personal tale in stirring incident, riveted atten- 
tion. We cannot refrain from giving one event 
of this period, though feeling the wide difference 
between a cold written tale and the glowing 
narration of one who had been an actor in the 
scenes he described. 

The division of the corps to which Mowes 
belonged was commanded to take a battery in a 
village near Paris. The battery stood on the 
other side of the village, and the only street 



REV. H. MO WES. 11 

through which it could be approached lay en- 
tirely exposed to it. One division, almost shot 
to pieces, had given up the attempt, when his 
was ordered to it. They marched up a street, 
crossing at right angles the one guarded by the 
battery. Scarcely had the enemy perceived 
them, when they received a charge of grape- 
shot : they consulted what was to be done ; it 
was resolved to storm the street, whatever it 
might cost. Mowes was one of the first to enter 
on the dangerous way. To their surprise, the 
enemy's battery w^as silent: the village lay 
behind them; for a moment they stood still to 
assemble. Only one officer and six men had 
ventured ; the imminent danger had deterred 
the rest from advancing. This little corps now 
looked round on their situation; before them 
was the battery ; on one side, two regiments of 
French infantry; behind, a large house filled 
with the enemy, who fired incessantly. They 
must yield as prisoners, or die. For greater 
security they placed themselves singly, at some 
distance from each other, and prepared for the 
death-struggle. But, remarkably enough, they 
were not attacked ; only a single ball from the 
house was aimed at them. They saw an officer 
of rank, escorted by a trumpeter, coming from 
the enemy's infantry towards them. The officer 
waved his handkerchief, and the trumpeter 



12 MEMOIR OF THE 

sounded. Inexperienced in military affairs, they 
did not comprehend this movement, nor could 
they, in their situation, guess the intention of it. 
They only saw an attempt to take them prisoners, 
and chose the best marksman among them to take 
aim at the officer : their companion did as he was 
commanded ; happily he missed his man, who 
immediately turned his horse. At a little dis- 
tance he stood still again, and once more bent 
his way towards Mowes and his brave com- 
panions. They again shot at him, and the same | 
manoeuvre was repeated, till one of them shouted, |> 
" He is a truce-bearer ;" the officer replied, in f' 
French, " I am a truce-bearer." They then laid I 
their arms aside, and awaited his arrival. He i 
made himself known to them as General Guille- | 
minot, who had been sent from the enemy's 
head-quarters to negotiate with Prince Blucher. 
They followed him to the field-marshal, and the 
war was ended. The consequence of the nego- 
tiation was the entrance of the allied powers into 
Paris. These men owed their lives to the cir- 
cumstance, that, exactly at the moment when they 
stormed the street, the command was given on 
the French side to leave off firing. 

He was a fortnight, under the most favourable 
circumstances, in Paris, before he recovered from 
the extraordinary efforts he had made in that 
campaign. His detachment was then ordered to 



REV. H. MOWES. 13 

t^uev fortresses, and had yet to see some hard 
service. 

After the peace was conchided, he rested, on 
his homeward march, at the town of Charleroi. 
Here a great and unexpected pleasure awaited 
him. He found his lost friend again, whom he 
had left, as he thought, to die on the field of 
Ligny. Brought into this town with the rest of 
the wounded, he, through the generosity of the 
enemy, was placed in a private house, instead of 
being cast into the crowded rooms of an hospital. 
The mistress of the house, seeing the dying 
soldier brought in, in the evening, resolved to 
try to rid herself of such a guest on the morrow. 
Accordingly, in the morning, she went to 
the sufferer, but God touched and turned her 
heart; the beautiful countenance of the young 
warrior, its patient and sweet expression, as he 
lay suffering before her, went to her heart. It 
was as though her own son lay there ; and she 
resolved to show him all possible kindness, and 
to nurse him as a mother. And she did so. 
Mowes ever spoke with deep feeling of her love 
and compassionate care. Long afterwards did 
she correspond with both friends, always address- 
ing them as her children. They remained to- 
gether under her hospitable roof for three months, 
at the end of which Charles Blume was suffi- 
ciently recovered to return to his anxious family. 
2 



14 MEMOIR OF THE 

It is not surprising, perhaps, that the miUtary 
spirit which pervaded so large a portion of 
Europe, and, indeed, of the whole world at this 
period, was shared by this young man, who was 
then uninfluenced by the pacific principles of the 
gospel. The allusion to this portion of his his- 
tory (however painful it may be) seems necessary 
to illustrate the peculiar features of his character. 

On his return to Prussia, Mowes remained for 
some time at the university of Halle. The cold 
and merely intellectual theology which then pre- 
vailed there, could not satisfy his soul. Chris- 
tianity had been, and still remained, something 
external and foreign to him ; but the deep work- 
ings of a spirit naturally thoughtful, already 
pointed him to some undefined relation with 
God, as that which would meet the intense 
cravings of his nature. He left the university, 
rich indeed in literary acquirements, but, as he 
often confessed, quite incapable of serving God 
in the world, because as yet he knew Him not. 

On his return to Magdeburg, he immediately 
obtained a situation in the school in which he 
had been educated. Charles Blume was still at 
Gottingen, but his paternal home was open to 
his friend ; their mutual attachment had already 
made him one of the family. But he was to be 
yet more closely united to this house ; his friend's 
'star won the first, deep, and ever-increasing 



REV. H. MOWES. 15 

love of his heart, so rich in the loftiest affections. 
When he took orders, she became his wife. 
She understood him ; and their Uves flowed on 
together, under all their sufferings and sorrow, 
with an increasing knowledge of their God. He 
led her to Him; and she, when his pJiysical 
strength was shattered and gone, supported and 
tended him, and sweetened every affliction of his 
life. In one of his songs he thus beautifully 
alludes to leaning on her strength : — 

" The ivy stays the sinking elm, 
Where it clung in former days : 
The weight of love the feebler proves, 
As the strong one's strength decays." 

In 1818, he took orders. For the account of 
his entrance on his new office we refer to his 
French biographer, principally for the value of 
some superadded remarks of his own. If he 
were at this time touched by the spirit of Chris- 
tianity, he had by no means clearly apprehended 
it. Yet he began his labours with extraordinary 
energy. Not yet knowing, experimentally, that 
from the heart proceed the issues of life, he 
believed that by beginning with external things 
he should succeed in reforming his parish. He 
improved the schools, bestowing his time and 
attention on them in various ways : he instructed 
the teachers, established meetings among them 
for instructive intercourse. Among the Germans, 



16 MEMOIR OF THE 

music is ever a part of popular instruction ; he 
composed a few happily simple and beautiful 
songs to favourite national melodies, for the use 
of his teachers and children. He employed his 
influence to suppress all disorders in his parish, 
and successfully combatted all the opposition that 
was in his way. In a word, he performed the 
part of a conscientious moralist. How worthy 
to excite our sympathy is the man who enters 
the vineyard of the Lord without knowing that, 
notwithstanding all his labours, the soil will 
produce nothing — nothing but thorns and thistles, 
until a new creation takes place! He culti- 
vates, he manures, he pulls up with great labour 
and in the sweat of his brow a few weeds, but 
they grow up again continually, they overrun the 
ground. The season of vintage is come ; he had 
expected grapes, but he gathers only wild grapes. 
Jesus, source of life, merciful Saviour, without 
thy love, without the new creation which thou 
hast accomplished in the bosom of fallen hu- 
manity, we should be reduced eternally to this 
sigh of despair, wrung from the sages of the 
world, by the overwhelming feeling of their 
weakness — " impossible !"* 

* " What then 1" says a heathen philosoper, " is it 
possible for man not to sin 1 Impossible. (d^»;^atyov.) All 
he can do is to strive not to sin." The heathen authors 
are full of these sorrowful confessions. 



REV. H. MOWES. 17 

Mowes soon felt how unsatisfactory were the 
results of his labours. The deep experience of 
his life; the occupation of his sacred calling; 
the need which he deeply and sorrowfully felt 
of knowing clearly the way of salvation, that he 
might point others to it; the peculiarity of his 
mind, which could do nothing by halves, but 
must comprehend thoroughly whatever it once 
seized ; the death-hke coldness of all that sur- 
rounded him in the church and the universities ; 
the uneasiness of a thoughtful mind, feeling that 
nothing could satisfy it — all drove him to a new 
source, which as yet he had scarcely known — 
THE Scriptures, He cast his line in this ocean : 
at the break of day, and late at night, he read 
with deep thought and anxious prayer the word 
of God. Rejecting all systems, all previously- 
formed opinions, he w^ould know, by personal 
examination, what were the contents of the Bible. 
He there found truths which solved the whole 
enigma of his past life. He found it affirmed, 
and his experience bore witness to it as a fact, 
that man's nature (not some dispositions merely) 
is sinful. Here w^as the true explanation of all 
the struggles of his own spirit, of the unconquer- 
able evil around him. Then was he humbled to 
receive life^ not barely help^ from the crucified 
One. Then was unveiled before him the mys- 
2* 



18 MEMOIR OF THE 

tery, how through his death we Uve ; then, too, 
he comprehended the truth sung by the poet, 

" The cross, once seen, is death to every vice.'* 

His spirit had awakened to a new hfe ; all things 
took a different aspect: feeling himself power- 
less and weak, he looked to the Strong for 
strength, and appropriated to himself, through 
faith in His Son, the might of Jehovah. All 
things becaftne possible to him. The mist was 
rolled away from the scenes of time, and he 
walked onwards, towards eternity, through a 
world made radiant by its light. 



REV. H. MO WES. 19 



CHAPTER II. 

Sweet in his undissembling mien 
Were genius, meekness, candour seen ; 

The lips that loved the truth ; 
The single eye, whose glance sublime 
Looked to eternity through time. 

MoK^TGfOMERT. 

" I lately noticed, with some surprise, an ivy, which, 
being prevented from attaching itself to the rock beyond 
a certain point, had shot oif into a bold elastic stem, with 
an air of as much independence as any branch of oak in 
the vicinity. So a human being, thrown, whether by 
cruelty, justice, or accident, from all social support and 
kindness, if he has any vigour of spirit, and is not in 
ihe bodily debility of either childhood or age, will in- 
stantly begin to act for himself with a resolation which 
will appear like a new faculty. And this resolution 
being sustained entirely from his own resources, being 
compelled to deliberate without consultation, and execute 
without assistance, will have a solitary union and con- 
centration, which will make it totally decisive." — Foster. 

One peculiarity in Mowes's history is, that he 
stood alone throughout; and, almost without 
earthly help, arrived at the knowledge and belief 
of Christianity. He once said, " I know I have 
many persons to thank for different things, but it 
was God who led me to himself: my thanks for 
spiritual good are due to Him alone, '^ 



20 MEMOIR OF THE 

At a later period, the writings of Draseke 
contributed to the further developement of his 
Christian principles. He valued them highly, 
particularly the later ones: to his devotional 
spirit, and the peculiar depth of his views, his 
own soul perfectly responded. He speaks of 
this author in a letter, bearing date March 7th, 
1831, addressed to a lady to whom he had lent 
a work, entitled " The Way through the Wil- 
derness,'' by Draseke : — 

^^ How attractive ' The Way through the Wil- 
derness' must be to you, I can imagine. There 
one speaks who has himself found the right 
way, and who knows what truth is : who is not 
bewildered by the learning of the schools ; but 
who, with an honest and simple heart, has given 
himself to Him who is the light of the world, 
extinguishing as meteors the other luminaries of 
the earth, and keeping the true light in his hand 
and heart. He is full of faith and spirituality ; 
hence he seems to impart them to others. It 
must be a joy to hear him ; it is a joy to read 
his witness for Christ. He and I can only be 
compared in this particular, that we both know 
in whom the salvation of man and his true eter- 
nal life lie, and that we have both gone to him 
as to the centre of all things, as to the sun for 
all higher life. If they call me a follower of 
Draseke, they do me great honour: I myself 



REV. H. MOWES. 21 

well know that in no point do I reach him. To 
a man such as he is, it is little ; to a man such 
as I am, it is enough. Another might be silent 
without great loss ; but w^re his mouth closed, 
the church and the Lord would have one dis- 
tinguished herald the fewer." 

The manner in which Mowes had been 
brought to the knowledge and love of the Sa- 
viour, made him quite independent of human 
opinion. Never was he heard to adduce any 
authority but that of the Scriptures. He was 
enrolled under no human standard ; he wore the 
colours of no party; he belonged to no sect. 
There was nothing in him assumed, nothing pro- 
fessional ; he had, as it were, lived through the 
whole of Christianity : he appeared to advance no 
doctrine before he had tested it by practice, and 
rendered it a part of his inner life. Thence no 
wavering found place in his mind. Whatever 
opinion he adopted was securely his own. He 
could not be set wrong by the most acute coun- 
ter observations ; no doubt could again shake his 
convictions. He did not hold a truth because he 
had learned it here or there, but because he had 
experienced it. None of his convictions were 
traditional, or simply admitted. Knowledge 
with regard to religion had no value in his eyes, 
except as it was vivified by faith. 

His intellectual sight was remarkably clear. 



22 MEMOIR OF THE 

He surveyed a doctrine or fact of Christianity 
on all sides, and saw far into the reason of it. 
Thence arose certainty and tranquiUity in its de- 
fence. It gave him a kind of vantage ground 
in controversy. He had then the appearance of 
the truth itself; his eye sparkled with light, his 
figure heightened, the most suitable word never 
failed him; and, as the occasion required, his 
logical acuteness, his glowing enthusiasm, his 
severe wit, his remarkable depth of mind, each 
in its turn was called forth. But, through all 
this, his affectionate desire of bringing the soul 
to God ever shone ; and almost every discussion 
ended with his bearing witness to the happiness 
of the man who has found life and peace in be- 
lieving. 

Faith and courage were the strongly marked 
characteristics of his mind. He had naturally, 
and to a higher degree through the influence of 
God's Spirit, a fearlessness, boldness and freedom, 
that bowed before no inferior power in the uni- 
verse. His was a true heroic nature, inspirited 
rather than depressed by opposition. He never 
trembled and shrank back from contact and 
conflict with the world ; but spiritedly and joy- 
fully he wrestled with it, in the blessed feeling 
of infinite power, which, through faith in Christ, 
was his ; vanquished it in all its forms, and 
bound it to the triumphal chariot of his Lord. 



REV. H. MOWES. 23 

Faithfully as he served his king, and ready as 
he was to yield due honour to rank, he cringed 
to no power ; he would have defended religion 
and justice before an assembly of kings, against 
all attacks, open or concealed, direct or indirect, 
with as much energy and sacred zeal as in his 
own country parish. 

Yet, with all this power and manliness, all 
these contests with the world, all this activity 
in outward things, Mowes was by no means 
w^anting in the more delicate qualities of heart 
and mind. Characteristics apparently opposite 
were blended in him. He could not only bear 
contradiction, but would frequently yield the 
precedence in controversy to an opponent far 
beneath him in intellectual power. In argu- 
ment he was pointed, deep, and clear. His 
power he had won from hours of deep thought. 
He would frequently occupy himself with ex- 
amining the most secret recesses of the soul, 
and investigating the deeper mysteries of reve- 
lation. He might often be seen perfectly still, 
absorbed in thought, with a smile on his lips, yet 
his eyes full of tears. '^ I have been taking an 
intellectual excursion," he would say, with a 
countenance glowing wdth light. His disposition 
was remarkably tender to the wants of his fellow- 
creatures : the simple act of invoking a blessing 



24 MEMOIR OF THE 

at his own table would sometimes awaken emo- 
tion, even to tears. 

During the first year of the developement of 
his Christian character, he was almost entirely 
destitute of Christian intercourse ; he was cast 
back on himself ; he nowhere found a man that 
understood him. He had often much to suffer 
from the misconceptions and bitter judgments of 
the world. Yet he did not shun the world ; we 
might say he sought it : he delighted in con- 
versation. He would differ in no external re- 
spect from others, while his high sensibility and 
quick imagination enabled him to enter, by a 
kind of intuitive sympathy, into their thoughts 
and prejudices. Wherever he appeared, he 
brought with him a heart full of good will ; it is 
not surprising, that when once known, he was 
eagerly sought. 

This want of Christian intercourse, however, 
contributed to give a certain solemnity and reserve 
to his character, which did not entirely forsake 
him in his sportive moods. To it might also be 
attributed something peculiar, almost one-sided^ 
in his views ; this, however, he entirely lost at a 
later period, as he associated with Christian 
friends and families. 

♦ How the developement of his interior cha- 
racter affected his public life, his views of his 
office, and his consequent performance of its 



REV. H. MOWES. 25 

duties, may be easily conceived. It is scarcely 
possible for a pastor to identify himself more 
fully with his people than he did. He lived 
entirely for them. Nothing that occurred in his 
parish left him unmoved. What happened to any 
member of it, happened to him. Every sin of 
which he heard drove him to repentance ; he felt 
as though a share of the guilt was his. He fos- 
tered and cherished every germ of spiritual life, 
glorifying Him w^ho had implanted it. He never 
met the members of his parish without speaking 
to them in the name of the Holiest. Slight 
as their connection with such subjects might be, 
he knew how^ to make use of the commonest in- 
cidents, in pointing his associates heavenward, 
and how to find, in affairs of daily occurrence, 
illustrations of something better. 

He had, to a high degree, the power of making 
the sinner tremble, and of skilfully and kindly 
raising the depressed and penitent heart. He 
stood before the sinner as an accusing conscience, 
and often with a word, a look, produced the 
greatest effect on his spirit. The characteristic 
noticed by one of his dearest friends is strikingly 
true. ^'A glance of his friendly, earnest eye, 
which always seemed as though looking into 
that higher world, was enough to awaken repent- 
ance and shame in the minds of those to whose 
inner condition his conversation w^as directed : 

3 



26 MEMOIR OF THE 

they felt themselves condemned by his glance ; 
a glance, marked perhaps only by those whose 
consciousness interpreted it: and, again, they 
felt half consoled, when, with so strong a dis- 
approbation of guilt, they saw so cordial a desire 
to help the guilty." 

Seldom do we meet with a pastor whose con- 
versation is so valuable as his was. His whole 
life was a continued sermon. Every one who 
came within his sphere must have proved this. 
The strength of his faith was so triumphant, so 
evidently directed to its object, that those who 
entered his circle were soon won over to the 
truth, or speedily compelled to fly his society, in 
order to save their earthly inclinations and worldly 
characteristics from the holy energy of that spirit 
which Mowes so powerfully brought to bear on 
them. '' I always feel when with him as though 
I heard myself reproved," said a worldly-minded 
man. Another, who was seeking the truth, re- 
marked how in his society he felt the riches of 
God's goodness. "A visit to the parsonage," 
says one who understood him, '^ was like a visit to 
the temple of God. I unbosomed myself to him 
most unreservedly, when I most needed to be 
invigorated and refreshed ; and never did I leave 
him disappointed. He threw a charm round 
the most indifferent objects of daily existence by 
the brilliancy of his intellect ; but his con versa- 



REV. H. MOWES. 27 

tion, when our spirit's life became its object, was 
beyond description. It seemed, while we listened 
to him, as if he had taken a glance into that 
world which is afar off; and as he, with holy 
joyfulness and almost inspiration, extolled the 
love of God in the incarnation of our Redeemer, 
we proved the truth of his promise, that where 
two or three are gathered together in his name, 
there he would be in the midst of them ; we felt 
it, we grew holier in such society." 

A fulness of spiritual life was his. An over- 
flowing spring w^as opened in the depth of his 
soul, which gushed forth as if eager to impart 
itself to the thirsty wanderers of the wilderness. 
Hence into many minds, hitherto strangers to 
Christ, he cast the seeds of a new life, which 
soon sprang up into perceptible existence. He 
was remarkably quick in discovering the hidden 
good of a character. His eye recognised the 
Christ-hke while it yet lay concealed, where, as 
yet unperceived, perhaps, by the soul itself, a 
new creation was about to be unfolded. 

The same character, deep, earnest, energetic, 
and affectionate, was to be traced throughout his 
pulpit labours. A sermon was not to him the 
work of a day. It was not a mere outward act ; 
it was an expression of himself. It occupied the 
whole week. He had it almost daily in his mind. 
Often might he be found with his first sketch 



28 MEMOIR OF THE 

before hinij his eyes jfilled vAth tears. What he 
preached on the Sabbath was always the fruit of 
the most earnest prayer, of the most careful 
industry, and often of deep sorrow of spirit. 
He considered nothing more arduous, but, at the 
same time, nothing more noble, than the office of 
a preacher. " You sometimes fondly accuse me 
of not taking interest enough in your concerns," 
he wrote to his absent wife ; " of being silent and 
serious when I ought to be more anxious about 
you, more occupied with the claims of affection ; 
but can you not place yourself in my situation — 
in the situation of a man who feels the weight of 
his calling, and who delights to falfil it, who 
sees increasingly how much is involved in it — 
how much is involved in being a preacher in the 
name of God's word and Spirit, and who would, 
too, be ever up to his mark ? Can you wonder, 
if, occupied in such thoughts, I have little sus- 
ceptibility to other matters — if, fast held by things 
unseen, I cannot escape from their circle ? It is 
one thing to think on the objects of common life, 
another to think on those of the invisible world ; 
in the one case the thread is almost as easily 
taken up as broken ; but not so in the other : to 
the one the soul is naturally drawn, but to reach 
the other we must overcome ourselves. In 
short, should I sometimes pass by you as you 



REV. H. MOWES. 29 

would not wish, then recollect and say to your- 
self, that still you are my own dear wife.'' 

He thus speaks of the importance of the pas- 
toral office, in a letter to a friend who had entered 
on it a short time after he had himself laid it 
down. " Your letter, my dear brother friend, 
was a pleasure to me in more than one respect. 
It came from a place to which my thoughts so 
often turn, where I received so many blessings, 
and passed through so many trials. It came, too, 
from you, who were long so near me, and the 
course of whose life was so closely interwoven 
with my own. My thoughts are often with you. 
I know the anxiety and care which must lie on 
you, sustaining the office you do. Great things 
are required in it, and by no one more than by 
him who fills it : no one knows better than he 
what those hours are, on which the eternal life 
of his hearers may hang. When he measures 
his power with his will — his performance with 
the wants of his parish — his ever-accumulating 
work mth the fleeting hours, his heart w^ill indeed 
sink. It seems to me that this serves, among 
other things, to lessen man's presumption; to 
make him feel deeply how far from a trifle it is 
to fill an office demandino; increasingr dilio;ence 
and high endeavour; and so that, in the end, he 
accomplishes more. The way is indeed toilsome 
and full of labour ; but the beautiful and great 
3* 



30 



MEMOIR OF THE 



will be won, and won by energy and strong effort. 
I read with the same pleasure with which you 
wrote it, that lately the accumulated work has 
been happily gone through. It is as if a man 
had climbed up the good part of a steep moun- 
tain, and can now for a moment stand still, and 
take breath: but the mountain is still higher; 
indeed, we cannot see its summit." 

In a letter to another friend who had lately 
undertaken the clerical office, he characteristically 
writes : — " My last letter to you was, if I am not 
mistaken, addressed to a friend who was taking 
the pastoral staff; that of to-day will be ad- 
dressed to one who has now for some little time 
borne it. Your new office has become a familiar 
one ; an old one I cannot say : that it never will 
be to you. You now understand your problem : 
your eye is fixed on your aim, and you strive to at- 
tain it ; not beguiled, on the one hand, by too bold 
hopes, nor retarded, on the other, by unfavour- 
able experience. You have now certainly tasted 
the sorrows and joys of a man who would take 
away their heaven from men, and point out and 
secure for them that heaven of which God alone 
has the key. You have sown in his field ; and 
your heart, which full gladly would have rejoiced 
at the abundant fruits and flowers, is now silently 
content, when it meets with less than it had 
hoped, in quiet fidelity, seeking still to serve Him, 



REV. H. MOWES. 



31 



content with a glance at Him who trusts you to 
scatter his seed, and to whom alone the harvest 
belongs. We have often talked of visiting you 
in your home. I confess, were I there, I should 
with much pleasure remain many weeks, and, as 
it were, live through your duties with you ; and 
share the zeal, solicitude and pleasure with 
which you respond to the call of the great 
Shepherd, ' Feed my sheep,' and endeavour to 
fulfil a vocation, than which I can conceive none 
greater. Yes, a pastor who merits the name, 
in whom another life than this earthly one has, 
through the mercy of Christ, begun ; who, with 
the apostle, can say, ' I live ; yet not I, but 
Christ liveth in me;' who seeks how he may 
make others happy through Him in whom he 
has found happiness ; is, I confess, in my sight, 
an interesting, highly to be venerated character. 
His is a life whose fresh sap ever puts forth 
fresh flowers and fruit ; a life that, like the ark 
of Noah upheld by the hand of God, is borne 
ov^er the mountains and valleys of earth; a life 
in which a man sees, as in a mine, treasures of 
gold ; a life from which his eternity is filled." 

In these words Mowes unconsciously gave his 
own portrait. His preaching may be thus briefly 
characterized. Christ was the centre round which 
all revolved, the source whence all flowed, the 
object to which all tended. Never was self less 



32 MEMOIR OF THE 

prominent in pulpit services than in his. High 
as his own standard was, he judged most kindly 
of the preaching of others. We cannot better 
describe his style than by referring to a letter in 
which he speaks of a distinguished preacher 
among his contemporaries. " I see no reason to 
join in the judgment passed on him, that he is 
severe ; if by that is understood any thing that 
goes beyond his Master's will. He raises up no 
new sin: he calls nothing sin that God calls 
otherwise : what he says is truth ; he calls no- 
thing good and praiseworthy that is impure in 
God's sight. He is no preacher of mere morality, 
who burdens yet more heavily those who are 
bowed down, and tortures the conscience with a 
hundred precepts, and in the end makes of man 
a self-sufficient hero of virtue, wdth whom it is 
worse than with the publicans or tax-gatherers of 
old. He is not such a character, any more than 
was John, or the other apostles. But he leads 
the worn spirit to Christ, and knows no other 
morality than love to him — no other moral prin- 
ciple than a heart which, for the Saviour's never- 
ending love, loves in return ; even as St. John 
says, • We love him, because he first loved us.' 
" This man is made to gather a flock to God : 
he may know much ; but it is not learning that 
qualifies him for it. He may understand much ; 
but it is not his wisdom that makes him success- 



REV. H. MOWES. 33 

ful. He has something that learning and study 
never won — he has found the truth, and 
rejoiced in it. The word he announces is no- 
thing he has discovered by deep thought, com- 
posed and arranged with art ; but it is something 
drawn from within, from the experience of his 
own hfe : ' it is in him a well of water, springing 
up into everlasting life.' This power lies in his 
words ; men feel them. It is the truth from on 
high he delivers, and as such he has learned it. 
Hence we find in his discourses that charm, 
which results from the presence of that truth 
which can make man, miserable and fettered a 
thousand-fold as he is, free." 

We will add to this description the testimony 
of one of his most constant hearers. 

'' There was something pecuhar in his preach- 
ing. He could say what others long before had 
said, and what many w^ill say in time to come ; 
but his manner of saying it was quite different 
from that of all others, because it arose from his 
inmost soul: his own peculiar fervour spoke 
irresistibly. He had also the power of awaken- 
ing feeling in his hearers by a word, a look, 
which they could carry ^dth them into their 
ordinary life, and which would so act on the 
spirit, that one sermon became, as it were, the 
parent of many." 

From his distinguished ^fts, his richly spirit- 



34 memoir' OF THE 

xial and powerful eloquence, and the adaptation 
of his preaching and conversation to the culti- 
vated and distinguished, as well as to the humble 
and illiterate, Mowes appeared peculiarly fitted 
to take the charge of a large and mixed parish 
in a populous town. Probably he would have 
entered on such a sphere, had more established 
health and longer life been his. But he never 
sought such a prominent situation ; he had a far 
different estimation of himself: with unreserved 
obedience and the greatest delight, he bestowed 
his whole love and entire zeal on the compara- 
tively narrow circle in which he was placed. 

His sphere of action was considerably en- 
larged by his removal to another place, after a 
residence of four years at Angem. In 1822 he 
was called to serve the parishes of Altenhausen 
and Ivenrode. 

Mowes entered on ♦his new duties in com- 
paratively good health. His sphere of action, 
though laborious, was exactly to his wish. His 
duty was his dehght. He found in the noble 
house of his patron that consideration and cor- 
dial regard of which he was so worthy. He 
soon won the confidence and love of his parish- 
ioners ; his church filled ; many came to him to 
inquire the way of Ufe. The blessing of God 
was upon him. This fair commencement of his 
labours foretold a yet fairer progress : much was 



REV. H. MOWES. 35 

sown, and well might he hope for a joyful har- 
vest. In his private life, too, all was bright. 
He was the husband of a woman worthy of his 
love ; one son had at that time already added to 
his happiness ; three lovely girls were afterwards 
born to him in Altenhausen. Never was there a 
happier home than his; and never had man 
greater satisfaction in his wife, children, home, 
and office. In speaking of his marriage, we 
adverted to the happiness he derived from it. 
One of his biographers, who well knew it, has 
thus described it : — 

'^ On entering their house, you felt that it was 
consecrated by the peace of God. The charm 
which pervaded it, showed itself less in outward 
appearance, refined as that was, than in kindness 
of heart, shining through courteousness of man- 
ner. The love that dehghted in hospitality, and 
that sought and prized Christian society ; the 
highly intellectual conversation ; a lovely circle 
of sweet children ; the readiness with which the 
joys and sorrows of the stranger were shared ; 
the refined and delicate wit that seasoned the 
conversation; the fine tact which excluded 
every thing that was low, and smoothed down 
all asperities ; the joyfulness with which suffer- 
ing was borne ; the glimpses of the heavenly 
kingdom which were here opened to every soul : 
in short, that faith in the Lord Jesus Christ which 



36 MEMOIR OF THE 

here marked the whole life, and which, in an 
uncommon degree, fixed the attention and pene- 
trated the heart, could never be forgotten by any 
who entered the house ; nor did any one ever 
leave it without feeling his spirit satisfied and 
richly blessed." 

In such tranquillity Mowes passed seven years ; 
his happiness was untouched ; he scarcely knew 
what sorrow was, and it almost seemed, by the 
deeply Christian tone of his mind, that he needed 
not to know it. Yet, at the sight of such un- 
troubled peace, a feeling as of foreboding comes 
over us ; for is not the hour of prosperity the hour 
of danger? 



REV. H. MOWES. 37 



CHAPTER III. 

The dead ! 
The only beautiful, who change no more : 
The only blest, the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled. The dead ! — whom call we so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us. 

Hemans. 

Perhaps, that indefinite feeling of insecurity 
with which the sight of untroubled joy impresses 
us, may arise from a vague and scarcely per- 
ceptible recognition of the truth, that, deeply 
interwoven with our nature as guilt is, suffering 
is the appointed means of our purification. We 
look at one on whose path no shadow has yet been 
cast, with the same feeling as that with which we 
regard a child at play jto whom we say in our heart, 
'^ Poor little one, he does not know what life is." 
We look on, before him, with apprehension, and 
see in the coming distance trials of which he 
perhaps little dreams. The highly spiritual 
character of Mowes seemed to divest his friends 
of all apprehension as to his future. They thought, 
" surely gold so pure can scarcely need the re- 
fining fire ;" but it was not so pure as perfectly 
to reflect the image of the Refiner. 



38 MEMOIR OF THE 

His sorrows began with the death of his early 
friend, Charles Blume, in the spring of 1828. 
We may judge how deeply his loss was felt, 
from what we have already seen. How precious 
his memory was to the faithful-hearted one, now 
indeed left behind, we have before intimated. 
Various poems, scattered through his works, in- 
spired by this affection, have, to a very high de- 
gree, that touching simplicity and depth of feeling, 
by which so much of the domestic poetry of the 
Germans is characterized. 

In the autumn of the same year, his health, 
hitherto so firm, began to give way. He suffered 
from a violent cough, accompanied by continual 
hoarseness. Unaccustomed to pay particular 
attention to his health, he considered it a slight 
passing indisposition, and continued the laborious 
duties of his office with his usual energy ; but the 
suffering at his chest rapidly increased. Of this 
period his successor says : — 

" Christmas, that festival which the church, 
celebrates with such solemnity in Germany, ap- 
proached ; he was not willing to omit preach- 
ing ; he thought the pain of being silent on such 
a day would be more hurtful to him than the 
e^^ertion. He had, as usual, prepared with his 
own hand gifts for his dear children ; forgetting 
his weakness, he rejoiced as a child among them : 
the spirit supported the body. Until New Year's 



REV. H. MGWES. 39 

day he mastered his suffering ; but a terrible re- 
action folloAved. Hemorrhage from the lungs 
returning after very short intervals, reduced 
his strength so much, that the life of this invalu- 
able man seemed passing away. He himself 
thought by the spring he should have reached 
his home ; and awaited his departure with per- 
fect tranquillity, I might even say with joy. He 
prepared himself and us for it daily. His song, 
entitled ' Parting Words,' was composed Feb- 
ruary 26th of this year." 

This little poem consists of eight stanzas; 
from the sixth his epitaph was subsequently 
taken. There is a characteristic beauty and 
joyfulness about the three opening ones; they 
are in sentiment, and, in some cases, in expres- 
sion, faithfully translated thus : — 

"Have ye seen, friends, that my eye is dim 1 
Have ye marked my failing breath 1 
Hark to the strain of my farewell hymn. 
Ere my voice is hushed in death. 

" When my soul departs to her father's house. 
And the faint voice no more ye hear ; 
Come, come to the shadowy bed of death, 
With the song I love to hear. 

" Sing to me of Him who has conquered death. 
Who our life on the cross has won ; 
Sing forth with joy, that I sink to sleep 
In song, when life is done." 

"Alas! he had years of suffering yet to pass 



40 MEMOIR OF THE 

through, much to learn in sorrow ; he had to be 
famihar with anguish, as the companion of his|y| 
lying down and rising up. Never to be for-" 
gotten by those who were then near him, is the 
testimony he bore, in the midst of such sufferings, \ 
to the supporting love of the Saviour. His phy- 
sical strength was broken, he lay helpless on his 
couch, human skill attempted in vain to relieve 
him ; but his spirit rejoiced in God. Whoever 
saw his eye beaming with hope, listened to the 
words of joy and gratitude that fell from his 
lips, and witnessed the calm joy with which he 
spoke of his death, might have esteemed him- 
self happy, could he have exchanged his health 
for the blessedness of suffering and dying with 
him. 

^' The more his affliction was prolonged and 
aggravated, the more clearly it was seen, that in 
every thing which came from God, he made no 
distinction ; he could praise and thank him for ^ 
all. Seldom has any one borne suffering with ' 
such willingness — I might even say, mth such 
rejoicing of spirit, as he. It was not an over- 
strained enthusiasm nor stoicism; it arose from 
no deficiency of feeling ; he was keenly alive to 
the least sorrow, and often felt a thousand things 
which others scarcely perceived. The riper a 
heart becomes for heaven, the more easily it is 
pierced by the thorns of earth. Mowes rejoiced 



REV. H. MOWES. 41 

in suffering, because it was a cross sent from 
God ; because he knew, and never for a moment 
lost the full confidence, that it was appointed 
for his eternal good, and for naught beside ; and 
because he became, through it, better enabled to 
be a witness to others of the Divine goodness to 
the sufferer. Never did we see his spirit sink, or 
his eye lose sight of God, in the hour of bitterest 
agony. Even when his body was shaken by the 
most fearful conflicts, his spirit was calm, indeed 
jo}^l. We could never comfort him, because 
he was always richer, stronger, calmer, more 
spiritually healthy than the friends who stood 
beside his couch." 

His illness rendered it impossible for him to 
enter the pulpit. As he could not point his dear 
parishioners to Christ, he offered earnest and 
unceasing petitions for them to Him who is the 
Giver of all good things. How the thought of 
them occupied him, may be seen from a paper 
he caused to be read to them, March 29th, 1829. 

'' He, whom God has placed as the servant 
of his word among you, greets you all, dear 
brethren. Peace be with you! Amen. I would 
rather speak to you face to face, but that God 
does not now permit; so receive this written 
word as though you heard it from my lips. 
You know how, in the days of health, I have 
borne witness to Christ, chat he is the Way, the 
4* 



43 MEMOIR OF THE 

Truth, and the Life. In the hour of sickness, I 
could bear no such public testimony ; but, had 
you been by my side, you would have seen how 
the power of Jesus our Lord supported me in 
my weakness ; how all that I needed — patience, 
a joyful heart, gratitude even for seeming evil, 
confidence in his care of mine, a happy spirit, 
for life or death — he gave me, and still daily 
gives. Of this I offer you a short testimony, in 
a hymn which suggested itself to my mind when 
my health was at the worst. My physical 
strength was broken, but my soul was vigorous 
in God's strength ; before me was death, but in 
me was life, even Christ ; my body languished, 
but my spirit rejoiced in my Saviour.'' He then 
introduces a short poem, full of beautiful imagery 
and sentiment, on the faithfulness of the Chris- 
tian's God; and continues his letter: — "So far 
the poem: receive it as a sermon on Christ, 
from my couch of sickness ; as a testimony to 
the honour of his name ; then, living and dying, 
at first and at last, my word to you will have 
been, ' Blessed is he who believes in Jesus.' 
Forget me not in your prayers. I commend 
you all to the love of God the Father, and his 
Son. Amen." 

He hoped before the close of spring, he should 
be restored to active life here, or raised to a 
nobler scene of existence. He was content with 



REV. H. MOWES. 43 

either. Few have so \'ivid a longing after the 
heavenly country, with so strong a love of 
earthly life, as he had. Even under his greatest 
suffering, he rejoiced in existence ; and although 
his spirit had, we might almost say, already taken 
its abode in one of the mansions of its Father's 
house, and earthly life was ever becoming poorer 
and poorer to him, yet had he still, for each 
lovely page of existence, a susceptible heart, and 
could rejoice even as a child rejoices. 

His health improved with the opening spring. 
He exulted in the prospect of soon being able to 
resume his pulpit duties, and thanked God for 
the trials he had passed through, as enabling 
him the better to bear witness to his mercy and 
tenderness. When he went into the pulpit again 
for the first time, though he was yet weak, 
strength and joy and life pervaded his discourse. 
His address made a deep impression, and one 
never to be forgotten, on his hearers. When he 
came out of the church, he lay for a long time on 
the bosom of his beloved wife, and wept tears 
of joy. The service had so exhausted him that 
he dared not attempt another. His recovery 
made no perceptible advances. His chest remain- 
ed in a distressing state, and from time to time 
the hemorrhage returned ; his whole frame w^as 
brought very low, and the energy of his spirit 
alone seemed to sustain him. 



44 MEMOIR OF THE 

To his physical sufferings a new distress was 
added in the course of the summer of 1829. 
His beloved mother-in-law, in whom he had 
found an affectionate parent, died. Her memory 
is preserved in a touching little memorial of her 
loss, which he composed under the title of " Com- 
plaint and Consolation on a Mother's going 
Home." 

The summer passed away with its sunshine 
and balm, without bringing health to the suf- 
ferer; on the approach of winter his strength 
visibly failed. On the usually joyful occasion 
of Christmas, he was obliged to give up the 
service to a clerical brother. 

It became increasingly clear to him that he 
was called to a greater sacrifice than any he had 
yet made, the relinquishment of his office. The 
worldly privations which would be consequent on 
such a step had scarcely a place in his mind ; his 
soul was bound to his office ; preaching was to 
him a sacred need ; the earnest strivings of his 
heart, the whole direction of his life, his richest 
joys, were all bound up with the sacred duties 
of his caUing. Were they to cease, the better part 
of his life would cease. In these things he had 
his being. He found himself in the situation of 
a man about to be robbed of his most valued 
treasures. The pastoral office had become to him 
almost synonymous with life ; it had grown to his 



REV. H. MOWES. 45 

spirit, and could not be torn thence without leav- 
ing deep and lasting wounds: yet he always 
held himself ready for surrender, should it prove 
to be his Master's will. But the struggle w^as 
oreat ; it left him almost broken-hearted. What 
tears had he not shed, what prayers had he not 
offered up, before it was over! Of this severing 
of life from life w^e will let him speak in a letter 
which he wrote to a friend, April 3d, 1830. 

"A year ago you came to us and found me 
ill ; w^ere you to come now you would not find 
me in health. I told you some time since, and 
then I could say so, that I was in a fair w^ay of 
recovery ; but now^ the case is far different. If 
to-day I look back on the commencement of my 
illness, I can still cheerfully maintain my alle- 
giance to God, and I shall, I hope, do so, how- 
ever long he may continue to deprive me of w^hat 
I submissively though yet painfully need. It is 
not to be overlooked that the trial has lasted for 
no inconsiderable time ; so long, indeed, that I 
think, thank God, a little longer will prove 
whether my surrender is pleasing to Him, and 
whether it will stand or not. One inward gain 
as a costly jewel has he given me through this 
outward loss ; one comfort in the midst of the 
sadness of having been so short a time wdth my 
people ; it is that, during these months of silence, 
I have shown them that he who announced to 



46 MEMOIR OF THE 

them Christ as the Life of the world, has been 
made strong through Him to overcome the suffer- 
ings of this mortal life ; and it will be, perhaps, 
my best and last but one, if not last sermon 
among them. To return to my situation. After 
I had for some little time felt myself stronger, I 
began again partially to perform the duties of my 
office. This lasted for a few weeks ; my strength 
then sank. I could no longer conceal my ina- 
bility from myself. I felt I must give up all — 
yes, ALL. Now other events one after another 
were developed. I had then to meet those 
whose inexpressibly affecting love would have 
bound me even with chains to Altenhausen and 
the parsonage. I had to meet them and to say, 
^ I can no longer serve you ; painful as it is to 
us both, my service in the office of preacher* is at 
an end.' And now all is so far over, that I have 
retired from my much-loved, noble calling, to 
the place which God pointed out, and my office 
is filled by another. Here stand all these events 
described in still, cold, mute letters! 0! the 
marble that represents a man is cold also ; it tells 
not of that which has made the heart bleed : but 
even though this heart has bled, I cannot other- 
wise feel, and say, and pray, than, ^^Even so, 
Father, for so it seemeth good in thy sight.' Now 
the pastor Mowes is in a sense dead. Dead ! he 
shall speak yet once more, if God will ; but it 



REV. H. MOWES. 47 

will only be a dying word from the lips of the 
departing. As a private man Mowes yet lives, 
but not as his friends would see him ; he moves 
as a shadow, he eats and drinks as a sick man. 
There he stands as a reed ; but he endures all, 
and blesses his God even as if he knew nothing 
of all this suffering." 

Mowes delayed the necessary change until 
June, when he resigned his office. Yet once 
again previous to this he preached. The delivery 
of the sermon was attended with frequent expec- 
toration of blood, yet he looked back on it with 
much satisfaction. The day on which he was to 
withdraw from his office arrived ; he was strong 
enough to give up his charge to the friend who 
succeeded him. " Feed thy flock and mine^'^ 
said he ; and all hearts melted with his. Through- 
out this day he was the strongest and firmest of 
us; but sometimes a tear would start into his 
large blue eye. He obeyed the precept, " And 
thou, when thou fastest, anoint thy head." His 
motto was, " Bear the bitterness of renunciation 
alone, and let it appear neither in the eye nor on 
the lip." 

The following lines will give a feeble idea of 
the poem composed on the occasion of his resig- 
nation of the pastoral office, and removal from 
Altenhausen. The peculiarity of the verse and 
the thoughts have been preserved, but, alas! 



48 MEMOIR OF THE 

the charm of the piece is gone : the fine spirit 
of the wine is lost in pouring it from one vessel 
to another. 

" Yield now," said the Lord, " to a swift decay ;" 
Then melted my strength as the foam away ; 
A shadow I stood on the verge of earth, 
Thin, airy, as scarcely of mortal birth. 
And my life's young May, with its gladsome games. 
And the joyful cares of life's burning noon, 
And its glorious heights, with their noble aims. 
All, all from my path are now passed and gone. 

Bright gushed the tear to my quivering eye, ! 

And bowed my sad spirit mournfully. 
But there came a warmth from a world unknown, j 

And the flowing tear from mine eye was gone. I 

Seems it right to thee, O my Father, Godi ! 

Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 

i 

" Thou shalt lead this flock to my feet no more," || 

Said Jehovah, from whom my charge I bore. 11 

I bow. I would not the thought awaken, | 

Why the pastoral staff* from my hand is taken. | 

Gladly I bore it in days that are flown, I 

The pastor and flock familiar had grown ; 

We had wandered long through many a land, 

Yet, yet has the shepherd's staff* fallen from my hand. J 

Warm gushed the tear to my quivering eye, j 

And bowed my sad spirit mournfully. | 

Yet saw I Himself on the thorny way, | 

His shepherd's staff* down at the fearful cross lay. i 

Seems it right to thee, O my Father, God 1 

Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod, i| 

**No flock to me shalt thou e'er again lead!" i 

And that solemn word made my wrung spirit bleed. 



REV. H. MOWES. 49 { 

The shepherd's dress from my shoulders is torn, j 

And never again may that loved badge be borne. I 

The pure priestly robe is taken off now, I 

The long-honoured vest. — In silence I bow. j 

To him who beholds them hang up, I can say, i 
I, too, a shepherd have been in my day. 

Hot gushed the tear to my quivering eye, < 
And bowed m}*- sad spirit mournfully. 

But, O ! from His form on that sorrowful day, j 

His vest to the rude soldiers fell as a prey. I 

Seems it right to thee, O my Father, God 1 j 

Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. ] 

i 

" Thou shalt yet from thy haven safe be torn, j 

And over the wave in thy frail bark borne ; j 

Thou shalt see, in thy strife with storm and night, ! 

Naught round thee but sky and the billow's might." i 

He said it, and swiftly the falling tide \ 

Bore me far out on the ocean wide. | 

O, many a dove from my hand has flown ; | 

No olive-branch back in return is borne I I 

Still gushed the tear to my quivering eye, ] 

And bowed ray sad spirit mournfully. \ 

But yet, as He promised, it ever has been, \ 

From the desert of waves was the bright heaven seen. \ 

Seems it right to thee, O my Father, God ! j 

Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. j 

] 

" True hearts shall be thine in a sacred bond, i 

And friendships grow bright for the world beyond, j 

Yet hold thyself ready, whenever I call, j 

To loosen these ties, to break from them all.*' i 

He spake it — and what he has promised, has done. 

How many a heart to myself have I won, 

But ever to part before closing day, i 

To bless with kind greetings, and then away ! 

5 



50 MEMOIR OF THE 

Full gushed the tear to my quivering eye. 
And bowed my sad spirit mournfully. 

Yet passed e'en He through the parting hour ; 

Proved He not with the loved one* its mournful power 1 

Seems it right to thee, O my Father, Godi 

Then I weep no more, but I bless the rod. 

Before him now lay a future totally unknown. 
Though the mere necessaries of life would have 
contented him, yet his retiring salary could not 
be made sufficient to bring up his four children. 
This must hare added to his other sufferings 
many privations ; but he had long lost all sense 
of care, and was accustomed to say, " God 
takes care for me ; he understands it far better 
than I : why should I not leave it to him ?" 

Though unable to continue his pastoral duties, 
Mowes was yet strong enough to be active in 
another direction. The recollection of his family 
determined him to look round for some occupa- 
tion. " I look," said he, " on the developement 
of my future hfe with the unconcernedness and 
tranquillity of that man who has more than once 
before waited his appointment from our conamon 
Father, and who still can wait, because he 
knows that He is Lord of all the earth, and 
overlooks none of his children. I have resigned 
the office that filled my soul. The choice of 

* "One of his disciples, whom Jesus loved." John, 
xiii. 23. 



REV. H. MOWES. 51 

another gives me no anxiety. One has my 
heart ; every other will be to me neither more 
nor less than a situation, the avocations of 
which I will perform as well as I am able, from 
a sense of duty to God ; what those avocations 
may be, gives me no concern. They will all be 
right, if I shall be able to supply the w^ants of 
my much-loved ones." He would have rejoiced 
if the office he obtained had any connection with 
the church. 

God had otherwise appointed for him; and 
w^ith his determination he was content. To a 
high officer of state, who had intimated his fear 
that it would be difficult to find a situation that 
w^ould meet his taste, he replied, that he could 
honestly assure him that in any office to which 
he should be equal, he would find him a perse- 
vering, true w^orkman ; and that if he w^ere re- 
duced to be a hewer of wood, he w^ould engage, 
with God's help, to be an able hewer of wood. 

'^ I know^ not," said he, in a letter, " w^here 
such a man as I am can be placed. I have been 
accustomed to clerical and spiritual affairs ex- 
clusively. I have not troubled myself with the 
barren fields of the busy w^orld. Man, the spirit 
of man has engaged me, not his name or rank ; 
and I w^ould fain hold some office connected 
with the former, and thus the prevailing desires 
of my mind find vent in action. In this case, 



52 MEMOIR OF THE 

others, who are more familiar with these things, 
will be best able to tell what will come the near- 
est to my wish. 

" Labour, of whatever kind it may be that 
my situation will demand, is not formidable to 
me ; many, in whose word I dare to confide, 
have given me to understand that I handled the 
opened gospel not wholly unworthily, but that, 
attempting high things, I so far succeeded, as 
that minds were strengthened and awakened, 
hearts raised and influenced ; this (now I may 
indeed say so) is a task in the discharge of which 
more is required than is necessary to fill with 
respectability other departments." 

In order to prosecute his plans more eflfectu- 
ally, he resolved on leaving Altenhausen, and 
residing at Magdeburg. The day of departure 
was fixed. Yet once again the weight of the 
surrender and suffering which were laid upon 
him, fell heavily on his heart. Many came to 
him the day before he was to leave, in order 
once more to hear a word from his own lips, 
once more to press his hand, and to thank him 
for his love and fidelity. He must leave those 
who were so dear to him ; he must no more an- 
nounce to them the word of life, no more offer 
with them the sacrifice of praise on the altar of 
the sanctuary. 

In the evening he sank exhausted. His 



REV. H. MOWES. 53 

enfeebled body gave way under excessive agita- 
tion, and the struggle to master it. '' So, then, 
all forsake me," he cried ; and then wept bit- 
terly. At midnight we were called around his 
bed : w^e thought him dying. Violent spasms 
at the chest threatened every moment to suffo- 
cate him. He lay in agony before us. '' Oh, 
He has voluntarily suffered much more on ac- 
count of our sins!" he exclaimed. While the 
deepest sighs escaped his tortured bosom, and 
his whole frame shook with convulsions, he said 
to us, " Be not anxious for my spirit ; all is 
%vell; God is with me." 

After this fearful struggle had lasted for five 
hours, his chest became less painful; and to- 
wards morning the danger was over. He was, 
however, obliged to rest for a week, before he 
could undertake the journey to Magdeburg ; and 
it was not till the last day of August, 1830, that 
he left Altenhausen. 

He himself thus alludes to these events, in a letter 
to his valued patron, the Count von Schulenburg 
Altenhausen. ^'You came to the vicarage on 
the eve of my departure from my dear, dear Al- 
tenhausen, as if by chance. I well understood 
your kindness : you felt, as I did, that it would 
have been unnatural for me to have gone without 
seeing you ; but you would spare • me the bitter- 
ness of giving you my hand in a last adieu, there, 
5* 



54 MEMOIR OF THE 

where eight years before you gave me yours in 
token of welcome. You remember, my dear 
count, where that intimacy which now unites us 
was first formed ; it was beside a grave, and I 
trust that at the grave alone will it be broken off. 
We both live, through God's mercy ; yet we shall 
meet no more ; no more on the Sabbath, in that 
place where the glory of our God dwells, where 
I was so sure to meet you. No ! no ! this shall 
be no letter of complaint. There can be no com- 
plaint before Him who does all things well, and 
whom I can only praise : but if with this word 
a sigh of sorrow escapes, God forgive me that I 
feel as a man. I cannot, nor would I, harden 
myself to that insensibility which, in the thought, 
' It must 5e,' closes the eye to what the supreme 
l^and dispenses, and seeks to make a fortress for 
itself where painful events cannot reach it. What 
God does is worthy of man's regard and contem- 
plation; when he allows days of happiness to 
come, he certainly intends us to recognise them 
as such, and to rejoice in them ; and when he 
changes them for days of sorrow, they also are 
the gift of a Father, who would not wound, but 
bless. And if, on such a day, the morning or 
evening dew of still tears should fall, that also is 
well, if those tears become not a cloud to hide 
our beloved Father and God ; if on them the 
eternal sun shines, painting the rainbow of peace, 



REV. H. MOWES. 55 

as the token of his unchanging mercy. And I 
see it, and therefore it is well ; though my heart 
is often depressed, and often, when I sit silent 
and without soul for the external world, I am lost 
in thought. I sit, indeed, thirsty and weary by 
a spring ; but by a spring which cools the burn- 
ing air, and at whose waters I quench my thirst 
and am strengthened. For the rest, my long- 
valued friend, it is well with me ; such news is 
just what you want to hear, and such I think I 
shall always be able to give you. To receive the 
same intelligence of you and your dear house, is 
indeed one of my liveliest wishes. The love 
which from the beginning to the end — yet no, 
not the end, that is not yet ; — but the love you 
have shown me from the first, has fallen on no 
insensible heart. I pray no more in the church 
for you, but God hears not there alone. His 
blessing on you !" 

Mowes's health was not worse during the first 
weeks of his residence in Magdeburg. Writing 
of it, he says, " My health has not gone back all 
this time, though it would not have been sur- 
prising if it had. The waves have long beaten 
my little bark ; and if at some moments she is 
fearfully shaken, at others tranquillity comes ; the 
little bark still rides above the waves, and if she 
spring not a leak afresh, is now nearing the port. 
In fact, I find myself much better than I was 



! i 



56 MEMOIR OF THE 

when I saw you last. Those hours of suffering, 
when some irresistible powei seemed about to 
thrust me out of life, have left no after effects but 
slight insignificant admonitions of distress, which 
at times come over my soul. My strength returned 
as suddenly, and almost as rapidly, as it was re- 
duced : it continues to increase, my step is firmer, 
and my muscles are regaining their elasticity. I 
have not lost my cough, but its symptoms have 
changed, so that if nothing occurs to increase it, 
it may be quite gone in a fortnight. You see, I 
watch myself narrowly. If you ask what more 
I do to gain strength, I answer, I allow myself 
to do nothing, as far as I can judge, which would 
impede nature's own process of restoration. I 
make use of God's sun as often as it shines, take 

. fennel and Iceland moss, and — am anxious about 
nothing. So I think I shall be pretty well pre- 
pared for the winter, and after winter always 
comes spring." 

To the same effect he writes, September 16th. 

*" All goes well with me. I have carefully made 
use of these summer hours. Yesterday I walked 
very slowly for nearly an hour and a half, and 
sunned myself in the warm glow of day's bright 
orb : to-day again he seems ready to do me a 
kindness, for, early morning as it is, he looks 
unveiled down from the blue sky. I will not 
wait long, only to finish these lines, before I go 



REV. H. MOWES. 57 

out with my three girls, and walk before the 
door in the warm sunshine." And lovely were 
those three girls, with their bright blue eyes, and 
fair light hair, and their fresh, blooming coun- 
tenances, and their young affectionate hearts. 
Most tenderly did they nurse their father, and 
earnesdy did they pray to God for his recovery. 
Mowes was indescribably rich and happy in his 
home. Here the heart of the sufferer had not yet 
been tried. In about ten days after the foregoing 
letter was written, one of these three girls lay a 
corpse. In a letter dated October 6th, he writes : — 
" Your tears, my dear A — , have flow^ed with 
those which love has here shed, and still sheds ; 
tears of separation. Separation ! this is a thing 
which has so long, and under so many forms, 
been presented to me — this is a word, whose 
meaning God has given me so many opportuni- 
ties of learning ; I know it now thoroughly, and 
for this knowledge I thank Him whose love and 
glory the darkness of earth cannot conceal. 
You, who for many years have been witness of 
my life and its varied experience, know that 
more than once I have had the near prospect of 
myself passing over that threshold which our 
dear, sweet Eliza has crossed ; this step has 
indeed made a bitter separation ; but for her who 
took it — who took it, God leading her by the 
hand — it was no fearful step. The event which 



3$ MEMOIR OF THE 

I looked for, which I seemed appointed to meet, 
did not happen ; that which I did not expect 
has occurred. She was full of life and young 
strength, and the flower has fallen with the first 
falling leaves of autumn. It is a thing I cannot 
yet realize. It does not become famiUar, it is 
only not more new. This event has now given 
me an opportunity of learning the full value of 
that salvation which w^e owe to the Prince of 
life. Without him, I should be afraid for my 
beloved child ; without him, I should be afraid 
for my wrung heart ; but now distress and death 
have little to do with me. He revives the 
heavy-laden. You must not think that eyes filled 
with tears, seeking and not finding, testify against 
these words ; nor yet the outbreakings of sadness 
which at times overshadow the countenance. 
Though the sun stands fast in the heavens, there 
are often shadows on the earth ; and though the 
light shines, drops of dew will hang on the 
leaves. yes, it is a distress, even for the heart 
of faith, to learn, in a beloved child, that the life 
of man is like grass, which in the morning 
groweth up, and in the evening is cut down and 
withereth. When man looks only at that which 
is before his eyes, what is it he sees ? A horrible 
spectacle, desolation, the power of the densest 
darkness — of death. A stony heart might feel, 
and a withered one begin to bleed. ! mine 



REV. H. MOWES. 59 

could not divest itself of these human feelings, 
and it cannot yet. It beat with love for her 
who is gone home, and still does it ; but this 
feeling is not pain, it is no sentiment of sorrow, 
that I would be free from. It is not grief about 
what has happened, and my inability to prevent 
it. No! dear, dear as my Eliza is, I would 
have nothing otherwise. I am content with 
what my God has done. There is only wanting 
to me the sight of what I believe, and what I 
know with perfect certainty, because He who is 
the truth has declared it to us. What, then, I 
now feel is only an attractive power, which 
comes to me from her whom God has united 
with me for an endless life ; an attraction from 
her heart to mine, which must yet w^ait till it 
shall have learned to give God the honour in 
all things. I have done so w^ith regard to the 
death of my dear child : I have done so, weep- 
ing and praying by her death-bed and her grave. 
I am now reconciled to the thought that she is 
gone away. I seem, when I think of her, to 
have a new power of vision, by which I look 
through all clouds, even to the circle where, 
through the mercy of that God to w^hom I have 
so often conmiended her, she has taken her 
place. My dear wife has been true to her faith, 
only her maternal heart feels yet more acutely 



60 MEMOIR OF THE 

than mine ; but her love cannot err, for faith is 
the light of it." 

A day earlier he wrote to a friend : " My eye 
has become so much clearer than it was wont, 
through Him who gives sight to the blind, that I 
can see the eyes that our Eliza closed have not 
become darker, but brighter; we have yet to feel 
our way through the night, while she, taken from 
the land of darkness, through the strong arm of 
the gracious and merciful Saviour, walks in light. 
Yet I will not say that no feeling at the heart 
causes me pain ; truly there is — but what pains 
me? Not our Eliza, for I know what in the 
kingdom of Christ, and, through him, death is; 
I know, through him, what life is ; how much on 
the one hand it is worth, when he lengthens it 
out to us — how little on the other hand is lost, 
when, instead of the shadow of life, he gives us 
the substance. Yet is my heart full of something, 
for which I have no proper name. It is as a 
glass filled to the brim, which, when we touch it 
with the finger, or it suffers a slight shock, runs 
over. So is it with me : many recollections of 
the past, many thoughts which I seek to control, 
seize my spmt, and all is tumult. It is then as 
if the sea overflowed.* But none of these things 

* It is difficult to render this passage by sober English 
prose. It is in spirit an equivalent to the line of the poet, 
" The sea is in our souls." 



REV. H. MOWES. 61 

shake the hold that God has on me. In our 
dear EUza's going home I recognise his act. He 
can show nothing but love and mercy ; and I 
gain, or rather he gives me, strength to ascribe, 
even in this, honour to him, in full confidence 
that that for which we can scarcely restrain tears 
oi sorrow^ in reality demands tears of joy. In 
this state I passed through the day which was 
truly our heaviest. I followed that form out to 
the place of peace ; my Adalbert strewed flowers 
on the grave and on the descending coffin ; and 
before the earth covered the earthy, I was suffi- 
ciently composed to fold my hands, and bend 
my knee and open my lips in prayer. Then I 
returned back ; at home I have her no longer, 
but I have her in heaven." 

" Death itself," wrote he, on the same occa- 
sion, "the fading, and at last the disappearance, 
of all life's traces, shakes not my steadfastness. 
In one view, death is nothing to me ; for our 
Lord Jesus Christ, who shows us in his own 
person the image of his heavenly Father, has 
brought life and imperishable existence to light. 
He has in his hand all who come to him by faith 
in his word, and no man can pluck them out of 
his hand. Ah! therefore in the midst of my 
grief I am calm, and my wife is tranquil too ; she 
is so, because, like me, she has faith in One in 
whom alone consolation and help are found. In 
6 



6^ MEMOIR OF THE 

communion with Him we seek our tenderly be- 
loved Eliza, not in the grave. For we know 
where she is, and are assured we shall find her 
again ; we know to w^hom she has gone home, 
and how unfaiUng love cares for her in her new 
abode. If we are sorrowful, we yet have peace, 
peace in our God and Saviour." 

Mowes was not one of those who, from a weak 
sparing of self, shun the remembrance of a beloved 
departed one, because this remembrance disturbs 
their tranquillity. He spoke willingly of his 
dear Eliza, and often as if she were still one of 
the sister band. On Christmas eve her portrait 
Y/as on the table, and before it the usual gifts 
were placed.^ As often as he mentioned her, it 
was w^th pleasure, and smiles shone through his 
tears. " Tears," said he, "for a beloved one 
gone home, are a kind of holy, mysterious com- 
munication from us to the w^orld of spirits, to 
which an answ^er comes from the Saviour, ' You 
shall see each other again, and your hearts shall 
rejoice.' " He would talk in an indescribably 

* Christmas eve is celebrated throughout Germany as 
a family festival. The whole household assemble, make 
presents to each other, and pass the evening in cheerful 
and affectionate festivity. There is not a family in the 
country, where there are children, in which the time is 
not observed. It is emphatically called "The Happy 
Evening." 



REV. H. MOWES. 63 

touching way, with his other children, about 
their sister who was with their dear Saviour, and 
who yet loved them. He celebrated her birthday 
as usual, as if she were still with them. 

A month after the death of his child, he thus 
writes: — "The fruit of humble, strong, joyful 
resignation to God, the renunciation of our will 
and wish, and the acknowledgment of his will, 
with the simple, entire faith of a child, grow only 
in that field which we call misfortune, which has 
been torn up by the ploughshare, and prepared 
for the good seed. We learn this truth, too, 
from the life of our Redeemer. He also was 
made perfect through suffering; he too must 
pass through sorrow to his own glory. ! was 
there no other way for him, and shall we refuse 
to be conducted through it ? Shall we not rather, 
when such a path is opening before us, raise our 
heads, and assure ourselves that our redemption 
draweth nigh ? If our body be a close prison, the 
prisoner therein is of noble origin, and the chains 
w^hich bind and wound him become a ladder 
on w^hich he mounts up to freedom, and which, 
in the hand of his Saviour, shall be the means of 
raising him to his holy home. O, blessed truth ! 
O, refreshing draught from the spring of living 
waters! You know the trial that our house has 
experienced, the suffering that has overflowed 
the mother's heart. I have talked over to-day 



64 MEMOIR OF THE 

with her, for the first time, the late events. 1 
fear not to speak of them, I fear not to touch 
the wound made by our EKza's departure. Shall 
I look at nothing but what I have lost ? No ! 
He who has called her has done me no wrong. 
He has enabled me to yield one so unspeakably 
dear up to Him, promptly and without complaint. 
He has so truly caused me to feel the happiness 
of being a member of that body whose head is 
the Prince of life, who keeps all his members 
joined to himself. In his love for man, whose 
life is as grass, and who, during his long wander- 
ings on earth, must pass through the purifying 
fires of manifold sufferings, both physical and 
mental, that he may be raised to heaven — He, I 
say, in his love, has spared the refining fire, and 
from the flowery paths of childhood has opened 
up a path to the land of eternal youth, to the land 
of light and freedom. I cannot understand those 
who turn away their thoughts from such beloved 
ones as have departed. ! how wilhngly w^e 
talk of the brother, the friend, the child, who 
tarries in a foreign land ! And how can we other- 
wise than with pleasure speak of her who has 
gone away to her home ? And even if sorrow 
presses, and unbidden tears gush, joy and sorrow 
ever walk hand in hand on this earth, and the 
one cannot rob me of the other. Sorrow is only 
like the shower in the time of winter frost, which 



REV. H. MOWES. 65 

quickens our longing for the spring, and shows 
us, across the cold plains of this wdnterly exist- 
ence, the green fields of an unchanging life. . . 

The remembrance of a beloved one 

who is gone home, is to me one of the most joy- 
ful of feelings ; and I cannot conceive it possible 
for a man to have a dear friend in another world, 
without (when circumstances recall him) bring- 
ing him, as it were, into the circle, and speaking 
of him, and tarrying, even though it be with a 
swelling heart, long and gladly with him in 
imagination. What is man's love, if it cannot 
bear to hear of his loved ones that are gone ? If, 
for fear of being agitated by the thought, he would 
rather not think of them at all ? If, to spare him- 
self, he w^ill act so unnaturally ? I can see no- 
thing in it but the miserable, weak self-love of 
an ill-regulated heart ; provided he knows that 
there is another life beyond this upon which they 
have entered. But here is seen the difference 
between knowledge and belief The informed 
man acknowledges there is another world ; the 
Christian firmly believes therein: it lies in the 
imderstanding of the former, he has an idea of 
it ; the latter has it living in his heart, he has 
tlie thing itself. The one can speak of^ it as a 
mathematician speaks of the properties of a 
triangle on which he is thinking; the other lives 
therein as his home, which he has certainly and 
6* 



66 MEMOIR OF THE 

truly found : to one it is a set and ready phrase, 
which, Uke dry, abstract reasoning, leaves him 
cold ; the other has experienced the loving power 
of the word, it has indeed become part of his own 
life: therefore the one remains weak and dis- 
quieted, while the other lifts up himself vigorous 
and full of peace. I must say with the apostle, 
' Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory 
through our Lord Jesus Christ!' '^ 



REV. H. MOWES. "> 67 



CHAPTER IV. 

Bright out of present darkness light shall shine, 
And out of present sorrow joy shall rise ; 

! trust we then the guardian hand divine, 
Nor marvel if our God, supremely wise. 
Choose a rough path to lead us to the skies; 

The path his Well-beloved hath trodden first. 
Is it not bliss when tears suffuse our eyes, 

To know that he shall wipe them 1 When we thirst. 

To know the Lamb shall lead where living fountains 
burst 1 

We have seen, in the last chapter, how suddenly 
and totally the whole complexion of Mowes's life 
was changed, and how submissively and cheer- 
fully he bore that change. We shall now have 
to trace his onward way; and while we see 
uncertainty hanging as a cloud over to-morrow's 
path, we shall learn that even such things can 
'' work together for good to them that love God." 
Mowes became poorer in his outward circum- 
stances, but his inner life unfolded itself the more 
richly ; he was more and more enfeebled by sick- 
ness, but his soul enjoyed increasing health ; his 
physical frame became weaker, but so much the 
more vigorous was the strength of his spirit ; 
•his life's way became more and more solitary, 



68 MEMOIR OF THE 

but SO much the closer grew his fellowship with 
his Saviour : every loss was to him a real gain. 
" Life is a school," he wrote to a friend ; " sa- 
crifice and self-renunciation are the lessons the 
Master appoints ; inward strength and tran- 
quillity the rewards which w^e shall receive 
when all is borne." Thence was it that his 
friends could perceive in him no trace of life's 
sorrows. Despondency, irritability, weariness, 
melancholy, were unknown to him ; triumphant 
joyfulness was his predominant characteristic. 
Hope, exulting courage, unwavering confidence 
of his salvation by Christ, made his path bright 
and his step firm. Once only, in the latter part 
of his life, through the excess of suffering, his 
spirit fainted, but never did it despair. 

On October 6th he wrote, "As to my health, 
the last means used have had no remarkable 
effect, yet it appears progressive." He remained 
in the same state to the end of the year, not 
materially worse, yet passing no day without 
symptomatic suffering. The loss of blood from 
the lungs was frequent, and the general tone of 
his system was very low. Still it appeared 
likely that he might pass the winter without 
relapse, and his friends hoped that with the 
return of spring his health would rapidly im- 
prove. In a letter dated December 6th, he 
gives the following account of himself: " I dare 



REV. H. MOWES. 69 

not close without saying something of my health. 
There was some foundation for the report you 
mention ; I had not been heard to cough vio- 
lently for some time, and my strength had 
decidedly increased at that period ; but a change 
has occurred since : late on Monday evening, 
the suffering in my chest came on, and the old 
wound was re-opened ; but after rather more 
than an hour I obtained very good sleep. Now 
all is again calm at my chest, and last night (I 
only say this because I know it will give you 
pleasure) I slept exceedingly well. As you may 
suppose, the prospect of the return of my suffer- 
ing did not disturb me — why not, you know 
equally well. On Sunday, R — inquired after 
my health ; I replied, ' If not quite a giant, at 
least half a one.' He remarked, 'Mowes has, 
indeed, always good spirits.' He is not quite in 
the wrong, thought I, and replied, ' Why should 
I not ? I have eternal life.' " 

Though Mowes was separated from his dear 
Altenhausen, and from that sphere of action in 
which he had so much exulted, yet his heart re- 
mained there, and he took a lively interest in all 
that occurred in his old parish. One instance 
of this we may give, in a short extract from a 
letter, w^ritten by him for a young couple, who 
had earnestly but vainly desired to receive from 
him the nuptial benediction, and who were leav- 



70 MEMOIR OF THE 

ing their early home for a distant land. ^' They 
are going to dwell by the far-distant sea-coast. 
It must be a pleasant abode. The sea, with its 
immeasurable extent and depth, is an altar of 
the Infinite. In the roaring of its weaves, and in 
the thunder of its breakers, a commentary on 
the text, ' I am the Lord,' is heard. It is the 
source whence all rivers and streams are sup- 
phed, and to it they all flow as to their bed of 
repose. So is it a fit symbol of Him who is 
the centre of all things, in whom we live, move, 
and have our being; the eternal, rich, inex- 
haustible spring whence, early and late, salva- 
tion and blessing flow to us. May they who 
are about to depart for such a home refresh 
themselves at that source, and be satisfied with 
its abundance ! Give them this wish from me, 
as the true nuptial congratulation." 

We see how fondly his spirit lingered in his 
beloved parish, in a letter he addressed to a lady 
who had sent him two sketches, one of Alten- 
hausen, and another of Ivenrode. " You have 
placed before my eye the spot and country 
which were the scene of my latest and dearest 
labours; where I moved the most freely and 
joyfully; where I won my fellow-men to the 
faith of the cross, and to eternal happiness; 
where each day was happy and blessed ; where 
I passed through deep experience, and endured 



REV. H. MOWES. 71 

my first trial ; where I sustained fearful conflicts, 
and overcame a twofold death, which would at 
the same time have severed me from life and 
from my office. There is the parsonage where 
my beloved wife placed round me four joyous 
children, where serene and earnest hours of social 
intercourse were mine, where I passed hours in 
thoughtful preparation for my public services, 
and where I too conducted them with such 
tranquil pleasure. Here is the foot-path leading 
by the pond to the church, which I so often trod 
w^ith an almost anxious heart, as if with some 
presentiment of what was before me, yet never 
w^ithout that joy which is natural to the servant 
of such a Lord as mine. To the left is the 
church itself, the field where I sowed, the house 
of gladness in which I rejoiced, the height whence 
we beheld the earth beneath us and her clouds 
under our feet, and felt the light from above 
shining brightly upon us ; the gate of peace, from 
which the Sabbath bell sounded as the echo of 
triumphant alleluias. At the side is the castle, 
worthy of the church, and of which the church 
was worthy, and where I ever found gateway and 
door alike open, which I rejoiced to enter, know- 
ing they were not open to me as a man, but as 
the messenger of God. It was not without emo- 
tion that I cast a glance on the second sketch. 
It seems as though it were Sunday, and I had 



72 MEMOIR OF THE 

passed the tile-yard and the mill, and was ap- 
proaching with eager steps my dear, dear Iven- 
rode. There is nobody in the field, and above 
appears the village, as if waiting for the bell to 
proclaim the holy day, which was there so gladly 
hailed. And, still higher, the eye wanders away 
to the edge of the forest, not far from which 
stands a house where I was ever hospitably re- 
ceived, and whose inhabitants had become so 
dear to me ; there I passed so many weeks last 
summer, in expectation of new life and strength, 
wandering through the forest, or bathing myself 
in the light of God's sun. The mill, again, 
points out to me a place where one dwells who 
showed me such true love, at the time when my 
strength was low ; who was, if possible, more 
ready to show me kind service than I was to 
accept it." 

Mowes continued to make every possible effort 
at Magdeburg to find a sphere of activity, which, 
while contributing to the support of his family, 
would offer him means of working according to 
his desire for the advancement of that kingdom 
which is not of this world. From the many dis- 
tinguished connections he had fonned, or rather, 
we might say, which had formed themselves 
round him, for he sought them not; from the 
great interest which his valuable character and 
fate had excited, and especially from his distin- 



REV. H. MOWES. 73 

guished ability, he had much to hope. But all 
his efforts were in vain ; his pilgrimage on earth 
was yet to be prolonged, while his painful inac- 
tion was at the same time to be continued. His 
God still kept him in this absolute and daily 
dependence on his sovereign will. Each time 
that a brighter horizon seemed about to open 
upon him, his hope was disappointed, and he 
had to learn anew to say, " Thy will be done." 

On December 2d, 1830, he writes, "Nothing 
has been determined with regard to my outward 
circumstances. The report of government, and 
the minister's reply to my application, are now 
lying at BerUn. If I could only say, ' There is 
a place suited to me vacant,' I should succeed; 
but there I fail. When I was with the minister, 
he inquired what situation I had in view ; I could 
only reply that I should be obliged to him if he 
would look out for a suitable one for me. I have 
stated that I am ready to go anywhere, but that 
an office that would continue my connection with 
the church would be most acceptable." Pre- 
paratory to taking a situation, he obtained em- 
ployment, though without remuneration, in the 
office of one of the government secretaries, for 
the sake of familiarizing himself with such affairs. 

Though Mowes was no longer a preacher, he 
still actively employed himself in the one object 
of his life ; in making visible, as it were, the 
7 



74 MEMOIR OF THE 

glory of his God, by efforts for the true happi- 
ness of his fellow-men. " My former and pecu- 
liar sphere of action being completely gone," 
wrote he, ''I yet find some opportunities of 
speaking a word in His name who has loved us 
unto death ; and this happens, as formerly, when 
on Sunday I am going into or out of church. 
So you see I am not yet entirely cut off from my 
beloved work. A word of Him always comes 
right to you, so I shall send you one. It is a 
Sabbath song, though indeed it is not unsuitable 
to any day." 

He at that time contemplated publishing a 
course of sermons on the epistles, which he had 
delivered in the year 1828 ; but difficulties lying 
in the way of the undertakingj^ it was abandoned. 
He entered a theological society, and was very 
active in promoting the object of its formation ; 
he was also an efficient member of the Magde- 
burg Society in aid of Foreign Missions: and 
drew up the reports for the years 1831 and 
1832. He took the liveliest part in the interest 
which the preaching of his friend A — excited 
in Magdeburg, and warmly rejoiced in the im- 
portant results which followed his labours. 

Mowes understood and exulted in the true 
freedom of Christianity; hence there was no- 
thing of the recluse in his character. Over- 
coming evil less by fleeing from it and avoid- 



KEV. H. MOWES. 75 

ing it than by looking it in the face, he used the 
world as others, and made one in all pure hu- 
man relations. During his residence in Magde- 
burg, he entered into spirited social intercourse ; 
the circle of friends which he there made will 
retain his memory to the end of life. His re- 
markable appearance ; his generous eloquence, 
which displayed itself more richly, if possible, 
in conversation than in the pulpit ; his graceful 
wit; the peculiar charm which resulted from 
the brilliancy of his imagination and the warmth 
of his heart, in combination with the uncommon 
clearness and depth of his understanding ; his 
frank, independent character, which conceded to 
others the unshackled freedom it demanded for 
itself; his free spirit, ever ready to impart its 
treasures to others ; his quick sympathy, which 
enabled him to rejoice with the happy, and to 
weep with the sorrowful ; all this gave to his 
conversation a magic peculiarly his own. He 
could say gracefully what few others would dare 
to say at all. He could give himself up to 
lively and unrestrained intercourse, without 
losing himself or his Lord in the world, making 
all things subservient to his holy faith : it per- 
vaded and blessed and ennobled every thing; 
his whole existence bore the fine impression of 
his Christianity. Indeed, his smile, his wit, 
his most unrestrained sallies, seemed hallowed ; 



76 MEMOIR OF THE 

the rich variety of his character, the seeming 
contradictions of his nature, were, by this one 
principle, blended together and invested with a 
heavenly lustre. During the last years of his 
life, no movement of his spirit, no thought, no 
word could be detected, which had not a close 
connection with Christian faith. 

Mowes watched with attentive interest the 
political movements of the times. Early in the 
year 1831, he composed '^ The Songs of the 
Prussian." They were two lyrics, which ex- 
cited such general attention, that many thousand 
copies were circulated through the country. On 
the banks of the Rhine, the Elbe, and the Sprey, 
they were sung with the greatest enthusiasm. 

These songs, little as it might be imagined, 
were written in spite of much pain and weak- 
ness ; his health had again sunk very low, and 
his prospects were darker than ever. A lady, 
who was one of his dearest friends, wished him 
to try a new mode of medical treatment, which 
was then, and indeed is now, very much in vogue 
on some parts of the continent. She had already 
entered into correspondence with a physician on 
the subject. We give the reply he returned to 
her kind offer. " For all, I must thank you ; I 
have again shared your care and thought in 
various ways. If God bless this new means, I 
shall be indeed happy ; and you, whose heart is 



REV. H. MOWES. 77 

SO large, will have the pleasure you desire for 
my sake. I have a larger or smaller circle of 
weeks to pass through, during which I shall 
have, as in the past, to solve the problem, how, 
in the alternate rise and fall of my strength, and 
in the ever-increasing brittleness of my invalid 
frame, my soul can take hold of the strength of 
Jehovah, and yet more fully win the eternal life 
of faith. In the mean time, however difficult 
this may be, I will not be discouraged ; I will 
not fear, because there is nothing I so much 
desire as that my God may be glorified in me on 
the earth — yes, even as long as he sees it well. 
What his determination as to my future life may 
be I know not, and I abstain from all judgment 
as to where these things may end. But shall I 
honestly tell you how I feel ? And will my words 
meet in you a heart that can remain stilly and 
that can cast all care on my account on God ? 
I must look for this from you. I would fain spare 
you all anxiety about me ; I would wish to unveil 
to you nothing but the joyful and untroubled life 
of my spirit ; but the steps you have taken for 
me, the share you claim in all that is to be done 
for my health, compel me to give you a faithful 
statement. You hope something for me from 
this new discovery. I am willing to avail myself 
of it ; it may be useful. You have already made 
some arrangements with * * ^ *, Believe me, 
7* 



78 MEMOIR OF THE 

if I had not for a long time well known your 
kindness to me, I should now know it ; but so 
much the more do I regret that I must raise one 

objection against the matter Here 

I am at the point I was before. I would not 
increase your care ; but I must, if I tell you faith- 
fully of my health. It has been sinking for the 
last fortnight, and I have been compelled to keep 
my room: you know a slight cause will not 
induce me to take such care of myself. Shall 
I yet further continue my detail? My hand 
resists, but you require it ; and I too owe it to 
you, that you should not imagine w^orse than the 
reality. Sufferings of more than one kind try 
their power upon me in vain, as to my happi- 
ness, but not in vain as to my strength, which 
yields. There was a time at Altenhausen, when 
walking was a painful fatigue; that time has 
returned : my knees tremble, and bear me slowly 
along ; the cough produces a pain at the chest, 
and I often lay my hand there to give it ease. 
Sleep is a friend who but rarely visits me, though 
I slept last night for five hours, and that has in- 
vigorated me much to-day. Many equally evi- 
dent signs of a weak and disorganized frame I 
pass over; it is enough of this tale." He then 
refers to some steps he had taken towards pro- 
curing a situation, and, after pointing out the 
uncertainty of success, he continues, " In this 



REV. H. MOWES. 79 

state of things a thought has occurred to me, 
which is too problematical, not to say chimerical, 
for me to regard otherwise than as a consohng 
idea ; namely, if God raises me up, and I become 
strong again as the young eagle, and no other 
path is opened to me, then I should perhaps 
have courage to re-enter my forsaken career, and 
to try, under less arduous circumstances, how 
long my chest would hold out. But then I 
should not spare myself at all ; I should not treat 
my life so carefully as I have done for the sake 
of my family ; I should then have tried my utmost, 
and would exhibit the word of life till my God 
close my earthly existence. I rejoice that I am 
so completely ignorant as to my future career, for 
thereby I have learned to feel myself perfectly 
safe in the hand of the Lord." 

On February 8th, 1831, he writes, " I strictly 
conform to my new discipline. For some time 
I have left off coffee, substituting milk, and 
occasionally cocoa ; the soup and vegetables I 
take are without the forbidden spice. My first 
dish in the morning is goat's milk, thickened with 
barley flour ; my regimen is simple and unvary- 
ing to a degree. I have stayed almost entirely 
within doors for three weeks, so that neither the 
north nor east winds can reach me : my cough 
has left me, or is very nearly gone. It probably 
originated in a cold taken by a predisposed sub- 



80 MEMOIR OF THE 

ject: my chest is easier, and in other respects I 
am freer from pain. I am always contented 
with my sleep, only it is not till midnight that I 
can obtain it. My strength certainly falls some- 
what short of Samson's. I am waiting for the 
spring : I know its power, which brings life to 
the exhausted ; and I calmly look for it, and com- 
plain not of the raw days which may precede it. 
Yonder it stands, with its gifts, like a messenger 
from above. I shall heartily welcome it ; whether 
it clothe itself for me in the glowing colours and 
flowers of earth ; or whether, divested of the 
earthly, I shall behold it as a form of light in 
another world. Yes! to such a life, a life not 
hemmed in on every side, not held down, not 
placed in so frail a vessel, would I joyfully pass 
on. Such a wish certainly does not displease 
our God, nor ought it to displease you. It does 
not make me look anxiously away from life, nor 
yet anxiously into the world. But truly my 
heart beats joyfully at the prospect of spring 
with its treasures of life ; we understand the 
grand hieroglyphic which it calls up before us, 
from the dead and frozen earth. He, whose 
name is the Word, has pointed it out to us. On 
the rocky grave, from which He ascended like 
the young spring, did his sacred finger inscribe 
the word life. Yes ! yes ! my heart rises up, it 
goes forth to meet life. Paul Gerhard sings, in 



REV. H. MOVVTES. 81 

his admirable hymn on the resurrection, ^ The 
Hero stands on the grave, and looks triumphantly 
round him.' In the Hero's strength, I may too, 
perhaps, look round triumphantly on the grave, 
or beyond the grave: that were a joyful celebra- 
tion of spring. This is the third spring that has 
found me waiting for new life and strength; 
should it be still in vain, yet will I patiently 
wait till He speaks the word, ' Now is my hour 
come.' " 

A week later, he writes : — " I see, with a kind 
of alarm, that we are already in the middle of 
the month. The days pass away rapidly. Many 
things which to my thought occurred yesterday, 
I find, w^hen I look back, took place a week ago. 
I often lose the reckoning of time; I confuse 
early and late. This illusion, I know, is not 
rare in a state of weakness ; I have always heard 
it spoken of as an infirmity. I would not call it 
so ; I would explain it otherwise. Such a man 
stands on or near that boundary to which time, 
as developed by months and years, extends, and 
on the other side of which is that which we call 
eternity, and with w^hich no human measure of 
time can correspond; where no sun rises and 
sets, ruling the year, and dividing the day from 
the night ; where earlier and later, at least accord- 
ing to our present use, will be words no longer. 
Therefore, understanding what is indicated by it, 



82 MEMOIR OF THE 

I may call this confusion of times not an infirnnty^ 
but rather a preparation for, or a pre-develope- 
ment of, that state which will arise on the 
coming change, and where questions as to the 
when will either have no signification or no im- 
portance; an approach or assimilation to that 
state which will have left the things of time 
behind. Still, I would like to keep a better 
reckoning of time and its arrangements; your 
letter, so rich in goodness and love, ought to 
have had an answer before this. I am of your 
opinion; the earlier the journey to B — is under- 
taken, the better." 

It was thought advisable to try the effect of 
the journey referred to, in connection with his 
new course of regimen ; partly for the sake of the 
change of scene and air, and partly that he might 
be near the physician under whose advice he was 
acting. He accordingly set out, taking Alten- 
hausen in his route. On his return, he remained 
at B — a fortnight, whence he wrote to his 
friends at Altenhausen. " I have seen you all 
again, and that not for a moment ; I have passed 
a whole day with you. I have been in the par- 
sonage again, and passed by my dear church, in 
the full consciousness of what these places once 
were to me ; yet without my heart being dis- 
tressed and sad. It is a faithful hand that is 
leading me, if the road is not quite even. Still, 



REV. H. MOWES. 83 

I could not but be conscious that I was weak, 
far different from what I was when I once visited 
the castle ; yet did that passing day demand my 
thanks to Him who allowed it to me, and I can 
and do afford to offer them. I have met with 
the kindest reception here. I am giving this 
new system a fair trial ; if it should gain no 
honour from me, I shall long to be at Magde- 
burg." 

He returned home with the conviction that 
the suffering at his chest was but secondary to 
the master disease, which was deeply seated 
elsewhere. His health appeared improving till 
June, when the most alarming symptoms return- 
ed. On the 23d, he wrote to a friend, " You 
have often known how weary it may be to 
wander on in the body. I too have felt it, and, 
during the last two weeks, in no slight measure. 
The body hangs as heavy as lead on the soul : 
you do not feel to be yourself, and sigh and long 
to be free from the burden of matter. It is like 
a man on a quagmire, who cannot disengage his 
foot from the loamy soil, and who, in spite of all 
his labour, cannot help himself out. 0, how^ he 
longs for firm ground, w^here there is freer and 
easier walking! And our walk is in heaven. 
There stands before us, through the might of 
Him to whom all things are subject, a glorious 
change; and in the land of light, where the 



84 MEMOIR OF THE 

weanness of earth shall have no place, we shall 
have the freedom of life. The oppression of the 
material world done away, we, the blessed and 
the free, the unbound and ever active, shall 
possess a nature of light. Till then, for a little 
while, we may long for our life to come, but we 
will do this without dejected and impatient side- 
glances at this life. In the mean time, wander- 
ing and erring and sinning as we are, it is well 
that mercy and compassion have planted the 
cross here, as a way-mark from God, pointing 
out to the eye of the faithful the road to the City 
of Refuge. Thus earth becomes the way to that 
height to which our Lord has ascended, where 
labour and weariness shall be under foot. Here 
and there, on the road, we meet with a companion, 
who renders our wandering towards home a de- 
lightful walk, under whose escort, or in whose 
society, even the ascent of the rocky footpath 
seems easy ; and, on the farther distance, bright 
eternal sunshine ever rests." 

On the same day, his wife writes of him : — 
" For the most part, he makes the best of the 
depression and want of the world ; and where a 
pious, holy spirit gives peace to the soul, the 
body can so much the better bear sorrow and 
suffering and wo. Do not these remarks come 
naturally when I think of my dear Mowes ? I 
cannot sufficiently thank God that he has again 



REV. H. MOWES. 



85 



preserved to me the life of my beloved husband ; 
and if I dare indulge but little hope for the future, 
I feel in my inmost soul that I am not worthy of 
the mercy shown me in this partial restoration. 
He was very ill, and if he slumbered, an in- 
describable anguish often fell on my heart, as if 
his dear eye would never open again : those 
were moments in which I could not conceive that 
I could ever again be happy on earth." 

Again his fluctuating strength seemed coming 
back, and he could give better tidings of himself 
to his friends. To one he writes, September 14th, 
" Shall I now tell you of my situation ? I must 
do so, because you have repeatedly desired it, 
and I rejoice that to-day I can give you much 
better news than I did some time ago. It is 
true that my little boat, which had so often 
mounted the billows and gone down again, 
had sunk once more to a fearful depth ; I saw, 
if I may say so, the bottom of the sea ; and it 
was no mere view ;> the waves broke over my 
bark as though they would dash it to pieces, 
and again ran mountains high. I felt their 
weight against my slightly built vessel, and 
out of the depths I looked earnestly upwards. 
Hitherto I had been sufficiently master of myself 
to allow no wish to predominate : neither desiring 
to remain nor to go ; neither anxiously wishing 
still to drive over the sea, nor longing to enter 
8 



86 MEMOIR OF THE 

port. I left both the one and the other in the 
hand of my God. But now a wish escaped my 
heart, which hitherto I had not ventured to 
allow. It found expression in the lines I have 
sent you. I called from the deep; God from 
above raised the sinking vessel, but otherwise 
than I had expected. Where it was weak, there 
it was strengthened again ; it had been almost 
stranded, but it now once more floated, and was 
borne onward, though slowly and wearily, over 
the sea of life. I have cause to offer heartfelt 
thanks to Him whose eye is ever watching over 
us. I see how He has turned the storm, so that 
I cannot enter the port which leads into the land 
of peace, in order that I may be yet purified 
and strengthened, before he makes use of me 
above. And when I cast a glance on my wife 
and children, for their sakes, too, must I thank 
Him. My dear wife, I well believe, will not 
dishonour the way of the living God through 
any heathenish grief, when, sooner or later, He 
takes me away from her. She will be sure that 
I am hers, even when she can only look at me 
on high. She will give Him honour even in 
this visitation, and her faith will triumph 
through quiet submission and joyful hope. Still, 
I know how much lighter the burden of life will 
be while I remain her companion. She is pre- 
pared for my departure, and is comforted by the 



REV. H. MOWES. 87 

thought, that our divided paths will meet again 
in the kingdom of our Saviour ; yet she is some- 
times fearful of a long journey here without me. 
^May you but remain here/ she said, 'if only 
w^eak and inactive. If I can but have you, and 
see you, may you, though but a shadow, never 
leave me.' God has granted the desire of her 
afflicted heart. We can yet see each other, and 
my shadowy life is regaining colour and strength ; 
this gives her joy, therefore my own is doubled." 
With touching truth might these faithful-hearted 
ones have made the language, as they did the 
sentiment, of the sweet poetess their own : 

" A little while, between our hearts 
The shadowy pass must lie; 
Yet have we, for their communings, 
Still, still, eternity." 

In a letter of the same date as the one just 
quoted, he speaks of the approach of the cholera. 
^' Shall I now^ mention that thunder-cloud, which 
is the topic of general conversation, w^hich all 
look out for, and which no one sees till it strike 
him or his ? To me it comes like a majestic 
tempest, mighty to make the most careless 
solemn, and to impress the boldest scoffer with 
the feeling of his dependence on a higher, an 
irresistible power. The world has in part learned 
what that means, ' God is a living God.' From 
his gifts of immediate good, the sun which he 



88 MEMOIR OF THE 

guides in its course, the blessings which he 
sends, the health which he bestows, the peace he 
guards, the harvests he blesses, they will not per- 
ceive that he is the living God. So now, through 
the fearfulness of his judgments, they must learn 
what manner of care His is. You will calmly 
contemplate what fills so many with terror and 
trembling. In truth, I rejoice in that terror and 
trembling ; it is good for man that his comfort 
be disturbed, and his poor pride humbled ; his 
wandering heart, thus braised, is prepared to re- 
ceive the seed of faith ; it takes root, and rises, 
and bears the fruit of the fear of God. Great 
precaution will everywhere be used, too much 
will be done to prepare against death, too little 
to prepare for death." In the spirit of these 
lines he composed a poem, of which he speaks 
in a later letter. 

The sufferings of the last month were only the 
beginning of conflicts fearful beyond descrip- 
tion. Early in October intelligence reached 
Altenhausen that his death was near. "His 
agony is great, very great," wrote a friend; 
" yet is his couch of sickness a speaking witness 
that Christ has taken away the sting of death." 
" A heavy time is over us," wrote another friend 
who was staying in the house ; '' yet God will 
sustain our hearts, that we shall not be wholly 
unblest under this sore grief. We have trem- 



REV. H. MOVVES. 89 

bled at the sight of our dear Mowes's fearful 
sufferings ; we have prayed earnestly, as we 
never did before ; and, through God's mercy and 
faithfulness in Christ, he now lies calm. The 
great expectoration of blood has reduced his 
strength very low ; but, if God will, he may even 
yet become strong. His will be done. Yes- 
terday, the preacher A — , who is attached to 
Mowes with a truly touching fidelity and love, 
on his knees in the pulpit prayed extempore to 
the Lord for help and deliverance for the sufferer ; 
and many hearts, glowing with the love and 
devotedness to which our Mowes could so well 
respond, joined in tears. may He, who has 
been our help till now, help yet again!" 

It was in this time of deep affliction that two 
of his sweetest little poems were written. They 
were entitled, '^ Prayer in Distress and Death," 
and '' Thanksgiving after the Storm." In a 
letter to a friend, he gives a vivid picture of his 
mental and physical conflicts with the power of 
the grave. " You want to know what has oc- 
curred since you heard from me last. In one 
respect it is but little, in another it is much. 
Little, for in my outward condition nothing is 
decided. Up to the threads which the hand of 
the Lord will have joined, but which I see not, 
all remains as it was. Whether I shall be 
counsellor, or secretary, or revenue officer, comp- 
el 



90 MEMOIR OF THE 

troUer, inspector, or receiver, or any thing else, 
in future, I know not. In another respect, my 
Ufe has been eventful, for it is only through 
God's wonderful and great power that I can write 
to you to-day, my dear S — , with my own hand. 
I have been led through a dark valley ; I did 
not expect to see its termination here in light, 
but when He wills, even the dead must rise. 
In July and August my strength declined ; in 
September it was so far exhausted that I could 
not mount even a low step without great effort. 
At last, early in October, came, to say all in one 
word, the time of death ; yes, the time of death 
to me, who am nevertheless yet one of the living. 
I have before, at different times of my illness, 
stood at that gate which opens to the pilgrim the 
entrance to his home ; but always have I been 
driven back again into this life. Yet once more 
have I reached that gate : not gently conducted 
to it, but cast there by the tempest. It was not 
a short, passing conflict between Kfe and death, 
but a whole week, during which death tried all 
his power on me. He came in a fearful form to 
my couch, and caused a scene of horrors to pass 
before the eyes of my beloved friends. He had 
long before lost the sting which he naturally has, 
through Him who has given us the victory; 
and when his power is at the highest, secure 
under the banner of Him who rose again on the 



REV. H. MO WES. 91 

third day, I smile at all he can do. But this 
time he attacked me with another sting, to prove 
my faith and truth ; with wdld and fearful suffer- 
ings, more intense and prolonged than I had 
before known. It was only an introduction to 
the events of the coming week, that after a quiet 
night, on the Sabbath of the harvest thanksgiv- 
ing, while I was dressing, in order, if possible, to 
go to church, I felt the still approach of a fear- 
ful time — the last solemn hour of existence, as I 
thought. I feared I should scarcely have time 
to call my wife, to fall into her arms, and 
commend my spirit into the hand of my Father 
in heaven. She came, and another came ; they 
had before them a dying man, from w^hom life 
was retreating, and who could only console them 
with the words of the Lord, ' I am the resur- 
rection and the life.' But, no ! contrary to all 
expectation, he who was weakened to death was 
raised again, but raised to unimagined conflict. 
I go over this period with trembling — may you 
never be placed in a similar scene — but by God's 
merciful help I have lived through it, and my 
soul, thereby refined, has, I hope, come out 
without loss. My spirit wrestled with all her 
strength to be free from the torturing body, and 
her prayers pierced through the clouds, even to 
the throne of God, to obtain permission to depart. 
I took leave of all : in comparatively calm hours. 



56 MEMOIR OF THE 

I arranged my little afTairs ; I was so happy with 
my beloved wife on Saturday evening to take the 
holy sacrament, though, before the hour came, my 
eyes threatened every moment to close. I, how- 
ever, lived to see the Sabbath, when A — , with 
whom I had the evening before received the sa- 
crament, a man full of evangelical faith, and a 
powerful teacher of the old genuine truth as con- 
tained in the Scriptures, made known my situa- 
tion in public. Many friends, in consequence, 
assembled round my bed after the service, and 
they can bear a joyful testimony to the power of 
the Prince of life, to the life that He gives, and 
the strength He imparts. After this period of 
suffering and labour, after these festive and joy- 
ful hours, I became better ; God helped me, not 
as I expected, but as He would ; helped me to 
earthly life, alleviated my pain, and at last 
removed it ; gave me rest, and so far weakened 
my disease, that, after the crisis, it became really 
less, and had more the appearance of being ulti- 
'mately eradicated than it had had for weeks and 
months previously ; so that, if I am not mis- 
taken, a real and visible step towards probable 
recovery is made. To-day, after eight wrecks, 
four of which were spent in bed, I walk with a 
much firmer step, the deathly paleness of my 
countenance has given place to the unfolding 
colours of life, the rose is returning to my lips, 



REV. H. MOWES. 



93 



and the old brightness is gradually coming back 
to my eyes. Also, my dear friend, my prospects 
have improved ; perhaps my spirit was led 
through this scene, that it might become better 
acquainted with itself, before available help was 
to arrive. Certainly, this late time of darkness 
was a valuable time to me, and I thank God, 
who allowed it to befall me, that I was not 
spared it. ' We must through much tribulation 
enter into the kingdom of God.' Acts xiv. 22. 
I have now experienced that, though a thorny, 
this is a safe path ; though one to be trod with 
trembling, it is a holy and love-appointed path. 
As a man, who, during the day, descends into a 
deep pit, sees the friendly stars of heaven, invisi- 
ble to others ; so when God allowed me to fall 
into the depths of distress and wo, I saw, through 
the dense darkness around me, the bright star of 
the Father's eternal mercy in Christ our Saviour 
shining over me. And this star was my polar star, 
never setting, but ever growing brighter ; and I 
know where it stands, I cannot lose sight of it ; 
wherever I am, it is over me ; wherever I go, it 
goes before me. And is it not a joy to perceive 
that we are, in any trait, becoming like our 
Master ; like Him in self-renunciation or mild- 
ness, in love or resignation ? So, too, is it a joy, 
when a cup is reached out to us, wdth Him to 
say, ' Father ! if it be possible, let this cup pass 



94 MEMOIR OF THE 

from me;' and then, receiving strength from 
Him, again with Him to pray, ' Nevertheless, 
not as I will, but as thou wilt.' Matt. xxvi. 39. 
! it is a high and holy joy to be with Him 
even in Gethsemane, to bear with him a crown 
of thorns, and in such an hour, strengthened by 
him, to say, ' The disciple is not above his Mas- 
ter.' Can we have such happiness without tribu- 
lation ? To follow him in bright days, and to 
sun ourselves in his love and glory, is sweet in- 
deed ; but in days of sorrow, to see Him near, to 
prove his faithfulness, is a precious addition to 
the happiness of communion with him ; there the 
bond is drawn yet nearer, there the heart presses 
yet closer to him, there the soul lays herself 
down at his feet, with fuller love and trust. To 
experience a storm on the open sea, when our 
bark is covered with waves and we go to Him 
with the cry, ' Lord, help ;' to feel, vividly to 
feel, that while he is beside us we cannot perish ; 
tossed here and there by the tempest, the stormy 
sea threatening to overwhelm us, still to keep our 
faith firm, knowing that he will calm the tempest 
when his hour is come — 0, this is an invaluable 
trial and strengthening of faith ! Therefore is it 
said, in the Scriptures, ' Blessed is the man that 
endureth temptation.' Therefore I look on the 
time of distress, not with weak, but with joyful 
feelings, and I reckon not what I have suffered, 



REV. H. MOWES. 95 

but rejoice that I have entered on the field of 
conflict with the weapons and armour which He 
has provided, who overcame the world for us. 
During the same week in which my life was 
despaired of, my dear wife had a second grief. 
Mary, our eldest girl, was taken ill, and her 
death seemed as probable as her recovery. In 
this case, too, God hath ordered otherwise than 
we feared : our child again plays joyfully round 
us." 

From another letter, dated November 19th, 
we take the following extract: — '^I look back 
with joy on the days that have lately passed, 
not because I have now drunk the bitter cup, 
and it is no longer before me. I know not but 
that He may please again to appoint it me, and 
render it still more bitter to flesh and blood. I 
had not thought that it could so come as he 
has already sent it ; but as he will, his will be 
done. Nor do I so much rejoice that a time of 
sorrow lies behind me, as that during it I felt 
his nearness, and in the midst of the darkest 
night saw his mercy shine out as the eternal star 
of the soul. John says, ' This is the love of 
God, that we keep his commandments ; and his 
commandments are not grievous.' 1 John v. 3. 
The time of distress, through which he has led 
me, has taught me that this is the love of God, 
that we suffer the tribulation he sends patiently ; 



96 MEMOIR OF THE 

and the tribulation he sends is not grievous ; the 
feeling of it may be oppressive, but the hand 
which lays it on us is a dear and faithful hand. 
Is it not true, that such experience is gain 
which can make us glad even to rejoicing, 
strong even to patient waiting? So I look 
cheerfully behind me, but also before me. So 
many hearts prayed to God on my behalf, for 
new life and prolonged existence here, that I 
shall indeed willingly remain, if it be his will ; 
yet has the Lord of mercy and goodness made 
the way hence appear easy to me. He has let 
me discover the unsatisfyingness and the poverty 
of earthly existence. He has placed me so near 
the door of another life, that I could almost, as it 
were, touch it with the point of my finger — all, 
all lay behind me, and I thought, hoped, longed 
each moment to raise my foot, and step over the 
threshold. In short. He has made me familiar 
with what others call ' death,' familiar with that 
life with which he renews the pilgrim whom he 
sets on yonder shore. As a child on the strand 
plays with the passing waves, till his brother 
comes from the opposite shore to call him away 
to the beautiful green meadows that lie there ; 
so I sit joyfully on this side and cheerfully wait, 
and quite happily watch, while the boat that shall 
bear me over comes across. God blesses when 
he appears to be angry, therefore truly have I 



REV. H. MOWES, 97 

cause to rejoice in the time of need and wo. It 
was life, and life's rich consciousness, and the 
return of life's strength, that in the past I sought 
from God ; and still, in the time of affliction, it 
is this for which I pray. Life distinct from the 
life of the soul, life dependent on those material 
organs which the soul now uses, is what I long 
for, and sparks of this life begin again to glimmer. 
The hand which furnishes this fragile lamp with 
oil is now giving it out again, but slowly and 
sparingly. Since the first of the month I have 
been able to leave my bed ; and I now sit, or 
rather lie, during the day, in the room where a 

short time ago I was struggling with death. 

***** 

That I have sought to bring men to the consi- 
deration of time and their most solemn interests, 
the poems which my dear wife has lately sent 
you are a proof. I can tell you one interesting 
fact with regard to them : I placed two copies 
before our king ; he graciously received them, 
and sent me fifty dollars on behalf of the mdows 
and orphans, who, in consequence of the present 
scarcity, greatly need assistance. In Magdeburg 
only a hundred copies have yet been sold ; but 
yesterday a person who interests himself in the 
dissemination of Christian sentiments, ordered a 
thousand copies ; and, to-day, a blind man, who 
is of the same mind, took five hundred^ intend- 
9 



98 MEMOIR OF THE 

ing to circulate them, gratuitously or at a low 
price, partly here, but more particularly at a dis- 
tance : of course the terms are very moderate. 
Without these conditions the sale would entirely 
cease ; so it is better to promote, with the slightest 
remuneration, the object I have in view, than, 
without this help, entirely to fail in it. In this 
way I preach to those whom my voice would 
otherwise never reach. With the money that has 
come in, or that may come in, I hope, on Christ- 
mas-day, in many a cottage, by relieving earthly 
wants, to lighten the sorrowful heart, that it may 
join in the song, ' To-day is the Saviour born to 
us.' I heartily thank all who inquire after me 
through your house, and take so warm an in- 
terest in my outward concerns. Say to them that 
it is well, very well with me, even when my 
bodily existence appears critical. My wife's 
heart is again lighter ; for she has seen him on 
whom her love hangs, whom she had watched in 
fearful suffering, and had already given away, as 
it were, into the other world, come back again 
to her in this life. Our little Mary is again in 
good health ; and, instead of the incoherent 
wanderings of delirium, we hear the overflowings 
of childlike joy on her recoveiy." 

During the winter, Mowes's health was much 
better. His suffering w^as comparatively slight. 
It was at this period that he employed himself in 



REV. H. MOWES. 99 

composing a small work, which was published 
in 1832, under the title of " The Pastor of An- 
douse." While engaged on this work, he writes 
to a friend in the following terms: — ''Will my 
undertaking meet with your approbation ? I hope 
so ; though I should imagine you would not soon 
expect to find my name on the title-page of a 
w^ork of fiction. At any rate you will be recon- 
ciled to the affair, when, under the foreign orna- 
mental dress, you find the same spirit which you 
would look for in any thing coming from my pen. 
Should my work be published, and come into 
your hands, it will not escape your notice that it 
aims to give a vivid representation of striking 
passages in a life originating under the influence 
of God's Spirit ; and that I have not been without 
intention in placing such a picture in this kind 
of frame. The canvass on which I worked is 
the period at which Louis XIV. began to execute 
the resolution he had taken, of extirpating the 
Huguenots from his dominions : and the design 
of the picture is, to exhibit life grounded on the 
Scriptures as the true life of men. My idea is 
developed, by contrasting men without faith with 
men who, having the true life, overcome the 
world, distress and death. The catastrophe is 
w^hat would be called tragic. I myself trembled 
and wept in writing it ; but, as I have written, 



100 MEMOIR OF THE 

SO has it ever occurred in the world, and he who 
sows with tears shall hereafter bring in his 
sheaves rejoicing. He whose eye is practised 
to ' see into the life of things/ will discover 
under the ashes the self-raising phenix, and re- 
cognise in the cloud the car of triumph on which 
the noble spirit mounts to heaven." 

The winter passed away without any very- 
severe returns of indisposition, and the recovery 
of this excellent man appeared, though slowly, 
really advancing. On the 25th of February, 
1832, he celebrated his birthday. It was truly 
a festal day to him, and to a large circle of 
friends, who rejoiced with him and his ; while 
the recollection of the intense suffering of the 
past year served but to mellow and deepen their 
joy. In the evening, they met and congratulated 
him in the usual way. He was deeply touched. 
^' Truly," said he, "I am not neglected or for- 
gotten by Him who has all hearts in his hand ; 
and were any one to attempt to tell the weight 
of what He lays on me, the tongue of the balance 
would show that my burden is far outweighed 
by what he has so tenderly sent." He after- 
wards wrote, in reply to these congratulations, 
some beautifully sportive lines, which his biogra- 
pher has inserted. "We regret that the difficulty 
of presenting these, and many other of his poems 



REV. H. MOWES. 101 

to which reference is so frequently made, in an 
Enghsh dress worthy of them, prevents their 
beino: laid before the reader. 

A day later he wTote to a friend : — " It is a fine 
thing to have a birthday. It was once said, that 
God has ordered the close of life wisely for us. 
I would say, too, that its commencement is as 
beneficently arranged : this I feel when my friends 
take such kind notice of the anniversary of my 
entrance into life. On the arrival of a new pil- 
grim on earth, w^e find that many a friendly hand 
has been long before occupied, and sympathizing 
care has provided, not merely for its physical 
necessities, but for its spirit. My heart has often 
been made glad on the anniversary of my birth- 
day, and especially on the last 26th of February 
could I sing a cheerful song." His reception of 
a gift offered by affection was indescribably 
amiable. " Others can give as well as he can, 
but nobody knows how to receive like him," said 
the friend to whom we have more than once 
before referred. 

If the return of spring did not perceptibly 
improve his health, it by no means weakened it. 
On the 22d of June he writes:— "My health 
does not retrograde, even though some days of 
suffering remind me that I cannot be very distant 
from that point which, farther or nearer, is ever 
in my view." 



102 MEMOIR OF THE 

It was at this time that unexpected circum- 
stances obliged him once more to change his 
residence. He wrote to Altenhausen that, on the 
8th of July, he hoped to return to that place, 
and to await, among his parishioners, the con- 
clusion of his life. This was, however, subse- 
quently rendered doubtful, by the prospect of a 
situation as secretary in the consistory court 
unexpectedly opening itself. In a very short 
time, he received information that another was 
nominated to the office. He had then to renew 
the resolution, which he had given up, of leav- 
ing Magdeburg, and to recommence his prepa- 
rations for returning to his former abode. On 
the 24th of July, he and his family removed to 
Altenhausen, which place he was never again 
to leave. 

Mowes occupied himself at Altenhausen in 
deep and extensive research, preparatory to com- 
mencing a new work which he projected. To 
this occupation he added theological studies : he 
took part in a literary and philological associa- 
tion of the neighbouring clergy ; he performed, 
as often as his strength allowed, official duties 
for his successor, gave lessons to his daughters, 
composed poems, worked in his garden, refreshed 
himself in the rays of God's precious sun, and 
quietly, patiently, and happily awaited his Lord's 
farther pleasure. 



REV. H. MOWES. 103 

Yet were his circumstances far from leaving 
him nothing to desire. No day was he free from 
pain. The hemorrhage still returned after short 
intervals, and he was frequently exhausted to 
the last degree. Occasionally, a day came when 
his weakness could scarcely be perceived, from 
the joy and peace which beamed in his eye and 
mien. To show the reader how severe his suf- 
fering was, even when at the lightest, we will 
give some notices bearing the date of this period, 
which he \vTote daily for the satisfaction of his 
physician. 

" Dec. 16th, strong bleedings ; 17th, the same ; 
19th, 20th, 21st, 22d, the same ; 24th, 25th, the 
same; 27th, something less; 28th, but httle; 
29th, free, but strong, quick, intermittent palpi- 
tations at the heart ; 30th, 31st, free, but these 
days very unwell. 

" General remarks on this time. Accumula- 
tion at the chest; swelling of the feet, disap- 
pearing in the morning; stiffness in the joints 
of the fingers ; inflamed and painful state of the 
suffering organs ; strong and quick palpitations 
on slight niovements; constant internal weak- 
ness and muscular relaxation, but which do not 
impede activity ; occasional entire loss of appe- 
tite, and aversion to many kinds of meat and 
other food ; frequent hemorrhage and loss of 
blood ; dull headaches." 



104 MEMOIR OF THE 

So closed the year 1832, and so dawned its 
successor on this child of suffering. Were this 
life all, we should wonder why such things 
were; but it is not, and all is plain. Were 
there no higher region which is ultimately to be 
its own sphere, the nest of the young eagle 
would not be stirred up. 



KEY. H. MOWES. 105 



CHAPTER V. 

Joy! for the stonny sea is crossed, 

The trial-hour is past. 
The earnest faith is proved and sealed, 

The links of love are fast. 

We shall now faithfully adhere to the German 
narrative, which the reader will recollect was 
written by one of Mowes's most intimate friends ; 
one who was constantly in his society during the 
last two years of his life, and who had, at the 
period of his former residence at Altenhausen, 
been long an inmate of the parsonage. 

The first months of the year 1833 presented a 
repetition of the scenes of the past autumn. In 
the night of the 21st and 22d of April, a paroxysm 
of severe sufferins; came on. With tremblinor 
hearts we stood round his bed. For several 
hours he endured a piercing, burning pain about 
the heart, which rendered breathing almost im- 
possible, and threatened every moment to suffo- 
cate him. As soon as the pain had in a sHght 
degree subsided, he wrote directions that were 
necessary to be attended to in the event of his 
death ; for he expected the spasm would return, 



106 MEMOIR OF THE 

and that in it his life would terminate. He took 
leave of us^ and prepared himself to obey the 
will of his Lord. The danger, however, passed 
away, only leaving a degree of irritation in the 
side. Indeed, his health subsequently rallied in 
a surprising manner, and continued to improve 
during the whole summer. His eye grew bright 
with its old lustre ; his movements were quick 
and elastic. The whole tone of his system 
seemed raised ; he took long walks ; and often, 
when he joined the social circle, we forgot that 
the quick, ardent man, who was rejoicing in 
existence before us, w^as an invalid. 

After passing through so many scenes of suf- 
fering and fear, so many hours of anxious care, 
we began to exult in hope. Had he not already 
been so long and so heavily tried? Was not 
Mowes then in the prime of his years ? Was not 
his life so necessary, according to our view, to 
his wife and children ? Might he not, even yet, 
perform many and great things for the kingdom 
of God and the spiritual good of men ? And if 
his sorrows were sent to try and purify him, had 
they not, as it appeared to imperfect man, en- 
tirely fulfilled their object? Mowes alone did 
not fully participate in these hopes ; yet he ac- 
knowledged the advances which his health was 
making. He wrote, on June 21st, "My health 
is in many respects better than it has been, until 



REV. H. MOWES. 107 

the last two months. On one point my recovery 
has taken an undoubted turn. My sufferings 
are considerably relieved, and my strength has 
increased, but — health is still for me a point in 
the distance, and my prayer must still be, in this 
respect, the seventh petition, ' Deliver us from 
evil.' '' 

On the 29th of July he writes more in detail. 
^' As I have often said. Could I only be with you 
just now! I have time enough for it, certainly, 
and I am constantly in a state to have time — in a 
state in w^hich I can only look on and see another 
labour in that vineyard in w^hich I once laboured. 
You know so far from my former letter. In the 
grand matter nothing is altered. That I am 
again in Altenhausen, with my wife and my two 
girls, instead of spending my time, as I did the 
preceding year, at Magdeburg, makes no essential 
difference. How this change of residence was 
brought about, I cannot now detail ; I can only 
say that circumstances, not agreeable, and wholly 
unexpected, have made this alteration expedient, 
indeed necessary. Truly, if I had completely 
recovered in Magdeburg, and found myself 
strong enough to enter on my old duties, it 
would have been a change, a joyful change — 
but no, it is not so ; I am here, but I have no 
part in my office. A — fills it as before. I have 



108 MEMOIR OF THE 

only this problem given me — to see behind me, 
with a still heart, the double blessing of in- 
estimable health and a precious office taken 
from me by the hand of God, and ever to train 
myself to bear the loss of both blessings tran- 
quilly; to go on with hearty submission in 
that path where God is with me; and to see 
another happy in the blessings which once were 
mine, without envying him, -^r complaining 
that I am of little consideration. In this state 
you saw me when you were with me, and in 
this state I am to-day. I can believe that you 
sigh when you read this; but I do not sigh. 
Yet I would not convey to you a high idea of 
my fortitude ; I would only anew bear witness 
how much I owe my God, who has become my 
strength ; and who (heartfelt thanks to his name !) 
will continue to be so. What could I do but 
sigh and complain, if I had no support but from 
within ? To be sick, not for weeks and months, 
but for years, without a sign in heaven that 
after the night a bright and refreshing morning 
will arise; to walk in fetters heavy in them- 
selves, and yet heavier from no probability 
being seen of ever shaking them off: and, what 
is more than all, to retire from a career in 
which I had gladly run towards a glorious end, 
and to see others still joyfully running therein, 



REV. H. MOWES. 109 

like a crane whose broken wing prevents her 
cleaving the air, while her companions with 
firm pinion hold on their course. My friend, is 
it not true, that it would be pardonable in a 
weak man, if tears, scarcely dried, flow forth 
again ? yes, I measure the greatness of the 
trial I endure ; but I now understand His word, 
' My grace is sufficient for thee : for my strength 
is made perfect in weakness.' 2 Cor. xii. 9. 
Still further, I see that I can glorify Him who 
gives peace and brings adversity, as much by my 
patience, and by a heart which gives itself up to 
Him, as I could have done in full health, in the 
widest sphere of activity, by undertaking all my 
enterprises in his name: and He enables me 
thus to glorify him. I am, in my hour of need, 
a living witness of the gifts which come down 
from above, from his hand, to them who believe 
on Him from the heart. Now upheld by Him, 
endowed with his gifts, where flesh and blood 
would mourn and tremble, I can look serenely 
up to heaven, and, in the midst of my weakness, 
rejoice in his strength. But still I am allowed 
to pray with earnestness that he would release 
me from suffering ; and you will f not think it 
strange if, while bearing the burden laid upon 
me, my hands are often folded, and my eyes 
^look up to the hills from whence cometh my 
10 



110 MEMOIR OF THE 

help,' and my lips open in the heartfelt prayer, 
which pierces even to the clouds, 'My God, 
help me!' With such a prayer, a more than 
earthly strength comes into the soul, it comes to 
us from heaven ; wej grow strong, and increase 
in vigour ; the prayer ascends to the throne of 
the Saviour, and draws down blessings on him 
who offers it ; it reaches the fatherly ear of God, 
and the heart of our Redeemer, and peace and 
consolation flow into the united heart, with the 
experience of the truth, ' Blessed are they that 
mourn, for they shall be comforted.' Matt. v. 4. 
During these hours of darkness I have become 
somewhat famihar with the way leading the 
soul, banished to this prison of earthly existence, 
out of darkness to light, which is indicated by 
these words, ' Pray without ceasing.' 1 Thess. 
V. 17. This path was not unknown or un- 
trodden before ; now I know it better, I oftener 
enter it, and I walk in it with a firmer step; 
and while my body is fettered to earth, so that I 
cannot ascend far, a way is opened to me which 
leads beyond the clouds to the heavenly inherit- 
ance, and I follow as on the wing of the eagle. I 
reckon my loss my richest gain, and therefore, 
my dear friend, I forget to sigh. One request I 
have to make ; when you, dearest S — , are ad- 
vancing on this path, tiiink, as your end comes 



REV. H. MOWES. Ill 

in sight, of your friend, and go to your God for 
help for him who is writing these lines. I want 
much, and — He can give all things. I can tell 
you nothing very cheering that has occurred 
since I wrote to you last. My body has had, 
in its depressed circumstances, to labour through 
many painful, agonizing, and wearying hours; 
w^ith God's help it has lived through them. In 
May a decided improvement took place, which 
continues; but still the enemy is not hunted 
down and vanquished : yet I hope God will 
make a path.'' 

And it appeared as though He were about to 
make an open path, and, after so many and 
such varied trials, to say to his servant, "It is 
enough." Week after week his health made 
perceptible advances ; he had not known a time 
of equal ease since the commencement of his 
illness. What had been formerly beyond his 
strength, he could now accomplish : he preach- 
ed on three successive Sundays without feeling 
any ill effect. Experiments like these, w'.th 
results so satisfactory, made it appear probable 
to him that he might again enter on his chosen 
career, and once more bear that pastoral staff, 
which in his time of weakness had fallen from 
his hand. An indescribable happiness came 
over his spirit. The autumn found him yet 



112 MEMOIR OF THE 

more vigorous, and he took actual steps in order 
to re-enter on his clerical office. Such a joyful 
end of his sufferings was contrary to the expec- 
tation of all his friends, and to his own. 0, 
how Hght and joyful were our hearts during 
this winter ! On Christmas day he ventured to 
do what he so long had not dared to attempt — 
to celebrate in public the descending Saviour. 
After the festival a new cause of rejoicing await- 
ed him ; his dear friend and patron, the Count 
of Altenhausen, unexpectedly entered the apart- 
ment, and with intense delight announced to 
him the determination of his majesty's cabinet, 
that he should shortly be reinstated in the cleri- 
cal office. The living of Weferlingen was at 
this time vacant, and Mowes immediately made 
appHcation for it. We will leave him to speak 
for himself. On January 15th, 1834, he thus 
writes to a friend : — 

'^ Your friends at Altenhausen, and especially 
your present correspondent and his dear wife, 
have rejoiced in the intelligence of your safe 
arrival at B — , in the confidence that, in the 
mean time, nothing has occurred to disturb or 
trouble the happiness of your house, and that 
within your four walls life moves on in its wonted 
peaceful and joyful manner. My recovery has, 
I think, advanced during the past months; at 



REV. H. MOWES. 113 

least I was better in November and December 
than I had been for twelve months, and the 
prospect of spring raises my spirits. What will 
not the next spring do for me, finding me so 
much better than his predecessor did? You 
know, my friend, how I stood between life and 
death ; but now I have the expectation of con- 
tinuing here for a time. I eagerly stretch my 
hand out towards the messenger of health, that 
vital heat and strength may be communicated 
from his glowing life into my feeble pulse. I 
cast a glance over the five shadowy years be- 
hind me, and I weep a little while, and then go 
forward on my career with a firm step, taking 
hold of the plough in God's vineyard and guid- 
ing it with a powerful arm. I should forget 
how dear I am to you, did I not, in imagina- 
tion, see your heart beat at these words, and 
hear the low sound of your prayerful congratu- 
lation, ' My God, help him.' Though my ex- 
pectations are not so confident, that the appear- 
ance of the contrary would surprise me as a 
strange thing, yet I do hope that He whose dis- 
cipline I have not resisted, whose hand, even 
when it was laid heavily upon me, I acknow 
ledged with bended knee and thankful lips, I do 
hope that he has now thought on me, and, send- 
ing his messenger of life, the new spring, has 
10* 



114 MEMOIR OF THE 

placed m his hand a magic staff, whose touch 
shall animate me, and bring the conflict within 
to a truce that may end in a confirmed peace. 
At present, as you will see by the date of this 
letter, I am not in Altenhausen ; I was obliged 
to come here in spite of way and weather ; a 
prospect for my earthly future seemed opening, 
in consequence of which I left home. There 
are many things to be done at a distance, and I 
can place my lever at most advantage here. 
Application is being made for me for a parish 
which has become vacant, about two miles from 
Altenhausen. It is a very good living. I have 
presented my petition; in a modest, but firm 
and connected manner, enumerated my qualifica- 
tions; and then placed the paper before the 
chief personage who has the disposal of patron- 
age: and now, supported by strong interest, I 
await his determination. It is nearly a fortnight 
since our dear count received an answer to my 
first application from his majesty's cabinet; it 
was to this effect, that, on his petition, the pastor 
Mowes is recommended for an appointment to a 
cure, to be exclusively his own. That is itself 
something, and it may conduce to further good. 
I have taken steps through the medium of 
* ^ * *, to obtain the vacant living I have 
mentioned. I shall soon see how all this will 



REV. H. MOWES. 115 

work, and you shall immediately be informed. 
If the result be not the desired end, it will con- 
duce to it. My dear precious wife hopes, as I 
do, joyfully and submissively." 

With such a prospect of returning health, and 
of the recommencement of his public duties, 
Mowes entered on the year 1834. Every thing 
seemed to indicate that this year would make 
the determination of God, with regard to the 
future path of his servant, plain, and show what 
he had appointed for him and his family, after 
leading them for these five years, as it were, in 
the dark. His hope of obtaining the living of 
Weferlingen was disappointed ; it was given, by 
order of the cabinet, to the military chaplain 
at Berlin. Mowes now turned his eye towards 
that place. In answer to the application he 
made for the situation of military chaplain, he 
was informed, that he should be appointed 
either to that office, or to some other that would 
soon become vacant. We now scarcely doubted 
of the happy termination of his applications. 
The chaplaincy at Berlin was exactly adapted to 
his strength and ability. In imagination, we 
^aw him labouring there in his accustomed 
happy manner. We thought nothing could be 
more natural than such a close, after years of 
waiting in quiet faith. He was perfectly free 



116 MEMOIR OF THE 

from anxiety as to what was about to be ap- 
pointed him. On the 5th of April he writes : — 
'^ It is possible I may be placed at Berlin. I 
was ready to go to Weferlingen, and now I am 
ready to follow the call to B. I waited for the 
determination of government, with regard to the 
former place, without disquietude ; I await with 
the same tranquillity the decision respecting this 
appointment. The unfavourable result of my 
former application has not moved me, and, 
should it again turn out different from what so 
many hope, it will not trouble my spirit. ' Hope 
thou in God : for I shall yet praise him, who is 
the health of my countenance, and my God.' 
Ps. xlii. 11. My greatest, most solemn, and 
holiest interests are well cared for by him; 
therefore I can tranquilly refer the lesser ones of 
this earthly life to him." 

A paper, written about this time, will show 
how he bore what would be to most men a state 
of intensely anxious expectation. 

" A glance onward meets only clouds, which 
shut out all view of the future, and my heart 
trembles as on the undulating wave. Are new, 
and, perhaps, increased sufferings coming? or 
will tranquil days bring recovery? Will the 
shattered tent fall in ? or will it remain stand- 
ing ? or will it be rendered yet stronger, and that 



REV. H. MO WES. 117 

through unwonted supports? Ah! so would 
the struggling heart have it. Will healing 
come to me here or above? 0, it is not for 
me to determine, even by a wish, the remote- 
ness or nearness of the end of my sufferings, nor 
whether that end is to be here or on high. Such 
a state of things, formerly, v/hen God was not 
my strength, would have been unbearable ; and 
even now it is not in itself agreeable : but it 
must come, and come again and again, till it is 
no longer necessary, till we have learned to 
wait quietly in full faith. All other things we 
are more willing to learn ; to act, to renounce 
self, to sacrifice, to lose — all these are easier 
than to wait. In these exercises of our being, 
w^e are ever something ourselves; we still feel 
our own strength, seeing that demands are made 
on it, that it is yet in action ; and all this can- 
not be without a certain satisfaction, a certain 
self-content, and a pride and vanity — refined 
Yanity, and sublime pride, if you will — ^but still 
vanity and pride. But in this lesson the I 
is entirely set aside, no account is made of it, 
no kind of activity is demanded from it, by 
which it can feel itself flattered. All we have 
to do is, to be contented to feel, with a full 
resignation of our J, its spirit and its efforts, 
ourselves absolutely dependent. This silent in- 



118 MEMOIR OF THE 

action, this humble greatness which men na- 
turally regard as thraldom, and the characteristic 
of a weak and slavish spirit, becomes easy to 
him who allows himself to be led by his Father's 
hand. He can bear it and be contented under 
it, as a child who joyfully pursues his little 
day's work or play, till the hour comes when 
his father takes him by the hand and leads 
him with him into the garden or field. He 
becomes stronger than Samson, who burst asun- 
der his bands as tow ; stronger than the man 
who breaks down the walls and overthrows 
the ramparts of a fortress as a worm-eaten 
partition." 

Alas! it occurred far otherwise than our 
sanguine hopes had pictured. All that Mowes 
had already experienced was no assurance 
against new trials. In the spring of 1834, 
while we were waiting, in perhaps too confident 
expectation, for his appointment to one of the 
situations to which we have referred, his health 
suddenly failed. A very severe attack came on, 
in which all his former suffering seemed to 
return in a much higher degree. The physical 
and mental anguish he endured w^as most dis- 
tressing to his friends. When we cast a glance 
full of grief on him, he would repeat from 
Luther's translation the promise, " Out of six 



HEV. H. MOWES. 119 

troubles I have saved thee, and in the seventh 
shall no evil befall thee ;" adding, " He, who is 
the Truth, has said it to me, six great troubles 
have passed over me, this is the last, then comes 
life." His own words may show the reader the 
abyss of suffering into w^hich he was this sum- 
mer plunged. June 24th, he writes : — " I have 
gained new experience under a storm which 
came on unexpectedly, April 31st. I will not 
write you the details; perhaps w^e may once 
more meet, then I can give you them. that 
my God would grant that his word may be 
verified ! ' Out of six troubles I have saved 
thee, and in the seventh shall no evil befall thee.' 
Shattered as my body is, my soul is powerfully 
made firm." 

On July 11th, he writes to a friend : — '^ Only 
pray with me, that God, if he determines to 
let me continue longer here, may at last find 
me worthy to be released from the fiery ordeal 
which I have undergone so long, and which 
during these last months has glowed with such 
intensity. I pray, pray constantly; I have 
done so for years ; morning and evening, and 
often during the day, I turn my eyes, filled 
with burning tears, to heaven ; but the chain 
that irritates my wounds, and bows me down, 
falls not off. But I cease not to pray, and 



120 MEMOIR OF THE 

my last breath shall offer the prayer, 'De- 
liver rne from evil.' Pray then with me. You 
will conclude, from what has been accidentally 
written, how it is with my health. It has been 
better for a fortnight. I have risen from the 
depth into which my God had allowed me to 
sink, to show Satan and his legion whether, in 
extreme and long-continued need, I would leave 
my Rock, and throw away my conjfidence, and, 
after advancing some steps towards heaven, fall 
again into despair. You know I have been led 
through many a dark valley, but the last was 
horrible as none before had been. To others, 
there has often seemed something great in meet- 
ing the face of death in full consciousness, in 
speaking of it with tranquillity, and in greeting 
it with a serene countenance. Ah ! this is easy 
for him who stands in the faith of the Son of 
God. A much more difficult problem, a much 
stronger trial, dearest A — , has just been mine. 
I can only say thus much in writing. In the 
dark valley through which I had then to pass, 
death was the radiating point of light ; in my 
readiness to give my hand to this messenger in 
God's name from the other world, to follow him 
w^as something little, less than little. It is pos- 
sible that my God, after I have tasted the dregs 
of such a cup, may mercifully remit it for the 



REV. H. MOWES. 121 

future. I have endured, and under the bitterest 
agony my soul has not taken her eye off from 
Him who presented the cup to her: — but I 
shudder to look back." 

Yet thou, dear patient one, thou must go yet 
deeper into this fearful suffering ; yet must these 
words be wrung from thee, as from Him on the 
cross, '' My God, my God, why hast thou for- 
saken me?" One more extract from his cor- 
respondence, and it closes. 

'^August 12th. The w^orld considers death 
a mournful spectacle. Oh ! how much more 
mournful are the servants whom he sends to 
sift the body, and through it the soul, as wheat : 
those slow diseases which, as the consuming 
spot on the once sound apple, eat into our 
frame, fix there, and undermine the constitu- 
tion, while we are unable to tell how long the 
malady has prevailed, or to what extent it has 
gone." 

A beautiful lyric, entitled, "A Glance out 
of the Fiery Trial," was composed at this 
time. 

The following lines will convey to the mind 
of the English reader the substance of the poem. 
The lyrical form of the original has been ex- 
changed for blank verse, as allowing a nearly 
literal version. 

11 



122 MEMOIR OF THE 

When wilt thou come, bright angel of deliverance, 

Bearing glad letters of discharge, which now, 

E'en now, my Father's hand holds out to view 1 

When wilt thou lead me from this depth of wo, 

Where for long years my spirit has been held 1 

O ! it has been as he, the faithful one 

Of old, looked o'er the waste of waters wide. 

For the sunk earth, that my worn spirit pines, 

With longings faint, for life, the strong, the free. 

How has the bitterness of quenched hope 

Been mine ! Through the dim light, a row of steps 

Seemed leading up to the high prison door, 

And a low voice without fell on my ear, 

*'The enchanter's spell is broken," and I heard 

The heavy bolt draw back, which barred my flight 

To freedom. — 'Twas but my jailor's malice. 

Making his joy of my delusion still. 

Yet stand my dungeon's walls, firm, strong. Hard, damp? 

The floor beneath. Fast closed the massive bolts, 

And the short chain still holds me to the wall. 

Bat the free eye, unfettered, wanders forth, 

And in the light that through my grating gleams, 

Greeletlvher own. E'en that small ray of light, 

He, the dark prison master, fain would quench. 

Building it in. He is a horrid form. 

Such as man trembles at, a spectral shape. 

Wearing the mask of pity, and in scorn 

Laughing at pity's self. Darkly to me 

He said, " Long will thy cross endure, for see, 

How he to whom thou prayest, here has cast 

Thee and thy living body deep within 

These foul and fearful walls — and this, oh this, 

Can a dear father do 1 Believe it not. 

Nay he has given thee over to my will ; 



i 

REV. H. MOWES. 123 ! 

So let him go, my friend ! join hands with me. 

The glorious paradise he promised thee, i 

Thou seest at last — 'tis here." So spake the fiend, ; 

And, with a glance malignant at the light * 

Which through the iron grating brightly fell, \ 

Turned him toward me : in that dark scowling face | 

Hell glowed. ] 

But to my wounded heart I pressed 
The life-procuring cross. And he slunk back, 

And turned his demon head ; but once again I 

Boldly I cried, " Strike on, that is thy work ; \ 

Mine is to bear it, to my Saviour's praise \ 

Bravely, and to thy shame. Thou wouldst destroy, | 
And with thy savage labour scarce content, 
Still addest fuel, nor my God restrains. 

He checks thee not, because he fain would have \ 

True and refined gold. The brand may burn, ^ 
I am but melted in the glowing flame 
Closer together, till at last is heard 
The great Refiner's voice, * The gold is pure.' " 

Ere I had spoken, the dark master vanished. 
I in my solitude was not alone, 

The dim light of the grating brought to view | 

The bright companions of my holiest hours. I 

Faith, with her queenly head, high in the stars; j 

Hope, with her pearly band ; Patience, her glance j 

In the holy distance, and the branch of palm \ 

In her quiet hand. * * * j 



When wilt thou come with letters of discharge, 
Bright angel, here 1 To strike from ofi* my feet 
The fetters down? Makes He as though He slept, 
My Lord my God 1 He wakes, his own hour comes. 
The stiller my proud spirit learns to wait, 

J 



124 MEMOIR OF THE 

The sooner draws he near in life and power ; 
And never brighter to the watching eye 
Does the fresh morning beam, than when the breath 
Of its glad dawn chases the storm-black night 

For an account of his closing days, and his 
death, we shall transcribe a letter addressed, a 
few days subsequently, to a friend at a distance. 

^'We entered on the spring with hope. 
Mowes thought that the use of the mineral 
waters which he was then drinking would com- 
plete his recovery. But what bitter deception 
was this, to us at least ! To him, nothing was a 
surprise. Before the close of April, the hemor- 
rhage returned, to a greater extent than ever 
before. It continued, with very little intermis- 
sion, for a whole w^eek. Then my view of the 
future became sad, and my heart depressed, 
while I thought on him, on his poor wife, on 
myself. The agonizing thought arose in my 
mind, that it was, perhaps, on account of my 
sins that our intercourse, during which I had 
often murmured against the chastening hand 
that was laid upon my friend, was broken off; 
the thought drove me to prayer, and I prayed 
earnestly that the worst might not happen. 
Mowes recovered again to a certain degree, and 
was strong enough, in August, to undertake the 
journey to Magdeburg; and on the parish of 



REV. H. MOWES. 125 

Bahrendorf becoming vacant, he made appli- 
cation for it. His strength increased rapidly 
during his stay in Magdeburg ; so much so, that 
al,l his friends said they had never seen him so 
well. how suddenly all was changed ! In 
the second week of his stay, the bleeding at his 
lungs returned with new symptoms, and he 
wrote in serious alarm for his beloved wife. 
Dear as she had ever been, he seemed to press 
her closer to his heart, as the time of their sepa- 
ration approached. Indeed, he felt it quite a 
privation to lose sight of her for an hour. She 
went in haste to him. The moment he saw her, 
full tears of joy ran down his pale cheeks, his 
eyes sparkled, and he could only say, ' Now I 
shall never again be separated from you, my 
dear wife ; never till death.' 

They returned directly to Altenhausen. On 
his descending from the carriage, I found him so 
much changed, that I was fearfully alarmed. 
But he had so often suffered, and to so great a 
degree, that we did not think of the worst. We 
lived through every day in a state of the most 
anxious expectation, hoping this disturbance of 
the physical system might be calmed ; but ever 
were we deceived. The strong man held him- 
self upright in spite of his exhaustion; and, 
under all, he alone awaited the result with fuU 
11* 



126 MEMOIK OF THE 

tranquillity. A friend from Ivenrode saying, ' I 
will pray to God till he is better/ he imme- 
diately replied, ' We will not pray for that ; we 
will rejoice that, at all times, it is His will that 
happens, whether I recover or die.' He would 
often remark, ' Dying is hard work, but death 
is dehghtful.' what hours we then hved 
through, and yet they were only the beginning 
of what was coming upon us. His illness in- 
creased to that degree, that, during the time of 
the bleeding, we frequently Ustened with intense 
anxiety for his breathing, in the fear that life 
itself had departed. 

'' In all his sorrow and suffering, he held his 
beloved and deeply-tried wife in full remem- 
brance. One day, when we were sitting in a 
state of fearful anticipation, enfeebled almost to 
death as he was, he rose, and walked towards 
her ; his strength was not equal to the effort, 
and he sank powerless on the floor. He was so 
completely helpless, that we could not move 
him back into his room ; it seemed impossible 
to raise him ; we had a bed brought and placed 
on the floor, and we laid him on it. What a 
spectacle, to see a man once so powerful lie thus, 
and to hear the sorrowful tones of that heart 
which at other times never complained ! After 
the lapse of an hour and a half, we were able to 



REV. H. MOWES. 127 

take him into his room. The famtness fre- 
quently returned, once in the middle of the night. 
He did not afterwards leave his room, and his 
disease very perceptibly gained ground. Yet 
did the strong principle of life ever struggle 
with approaching death, and his was mighty in 
the midst of the conflict. We stood round the 
sufferer : his words and looks breathed of life, 
but promised it not, at least not earthly life ; 
but eternal life was there, and therefore we 
sometimes forgot the passing and earthly, and 
thought that all might yet be well. He rejoiced 
in dying, for to him it w^as the same as living. A 
week before his death, when he had received the 
holy sacrament, and w^as, as he thought, at the 
point of death, he said, ^I shall soon stand 
before the throne of God: my soul might 
tremble w^hen she looks back on a life in which 
so little has been accomplished, which I ought 
and wished to have done ; and with deep repent- 
ance I feel how far I am below the high aim 
which was placed before me : but yet I tremble 
not ; but I die peacefully, joyfully, for my Lord 
and Saviour will answer for me in judgment ; 
and if my weakness will allow, I shall pass 
hence wdth songs of triumph.' A day before 
his departure, the intelligence reached him of 
the death of a sister of his wife, on whom cross 



128 MEMOIR OF THE 

after cross was laid. As he watched her tears^ 

he said, ^Let us not weep, but rather rejoice I 

that she has overcome.' He had, even at this J 

period, some hours of weakness to pass through, I 

which were, as indeed every thing about him | 

appeared to be, pecuHar. Not that he capri- I 

ciously desired to remain here ; such a wish he j 

never strongly indulged. Not that he feared | 

death : he greeted the hour of his approach with \ 

joy. His distress was of another kind ; a fear- | 

fulness and trembling, different from any thing I | 

had ever known ; conflict with the spirit of evil, f 

who yet once more, and for the last time, tried 1 

his power and art on this faithful one. At the | 

period of his bitterest suffering, he seemed to j 
approach his bed, and say, ' See, this is the 
mercy of Him on whom thou hast so firmly 
relied !' and "We then heard from the lips of our 
friend the victorious word with which he repulsed 
the enemy. My spirit trembles, and yet rejoices^ 
when I look back on this time. Full well I 

know that this account will deeply impress you. | 

To me it was sometimes very striking to observe, ^ 

that, almost agonized as he was, he was never | 

overwhelmed; absolute distress of spirit he I 

never appeared to have; never did I see his | 

tranquillity or peace fail ; and this was because, v 

strong as his suffering and conflict might be, he I 

was yet stronger. | 



REV. H. MOWES. 129 

*' On the second Saturday evening before his 
death, (he died on Tuesday, October 14th, 
1834,) we found him better: during the last 
few days he had spoken but Uttle ; now again 
words full of hfe and spirit flowed from his lips. 
Our hearts rejoiced. I laboured the next day 
in my church till noon, when my tranquillity 
was suddenly disturbed by the intelligence that 
he was much worse, and that he thought himself 
dying. I went immediately to him : he begged 
me to administer the sacrament. I need not 
describe this scene to you ; you celebrated it 
once with him at Magdeburg, as he stood on 
the threshold of the future life. He would have 
the teacher of one of the schools and some of 
the children come, and when he had sung 
with them the hymn, ' Christ is my life,' I spoke 
a few words, but with what a heart ! 0, how 
he then prayed ! What an humble acknowledg- 
ment of weakness and guilt, what confidence in 
the abounding mercy of our God and Saviour ! 
What aflfecting yet firm joyfulness in the refer- 
ences he made to his dear, precious children, 
who, with folded hands and tearful eyes, looked 
on their beloved father ! What intercession for 
us all, for our spirits and their salvation ! and 
how he then yielded all — wife, children, life 
and body, heart and soul — into His hand ; and, 



130 MEMOIR OF THE 

as though all now lay well protected there, he 
concluded rejoicing, as he had begun weeping 
over his weakness. Then he received, as a 
dying man, the supper of the Lord. I, and all 
with me, had grown strong under his prayer ; it 
seemed to our spirits that death was no longer 
death ; a feeling of life pervaded us all. During 
the heavenly service, and after it, his eye sparkled 
with light, a sweet smile was on his lips, he 
looked already like a glorious spirit. As if his 
soul had been then free from the body it had so 
long borne, he delivered his last sermon on 
Christ to the little auditory, who, with many 
tears, but no agony, only an unutterable sadness, 
stood round him. He was then silent and ex- 
hausted ; we still remained beside him. 

But his God came not for him ; he had yet 
days and nights to wait. Yet more ; it was, I 
think, on the Monday following, that official in- 
formation was received, that his majesty was 
pleased to direct that Henry Mowes should either 
be nominated successor to the mihtary chaplain 
at Berlni, or superintendent at Weferlingen ; or^ 
if he preferred it, he should be appointed to the 
living at Bahrendorf. Why this now ? I think 
the intention of the Lord was, yet once more to 
try his servant, and prove whether earth, pre- 
senting such a prospect before him, could not 



REV. H. MOWES. 



131 



draw off his eye from heaven. how entirely 
different would not the lives of his wdfe and 
children become, if he might again enter his 
office ! I imparted the intelligence to him ; he 
received it with perfect tranquillity, only reply- 
ing, "To Bahrendorf, then, or on the bier." 
During these last days, he refreshed himself par- 
ticularly with the first Epistle of Peter, and 
Theremin's Evening Hours, which w^e placed 
before him. With that restlessness w^hich so 
frequently marks the dying, our friend liked to 
be moved from place to place ; sometimes, w^hen 
we so moved or raised him, it occasioned great 
pain, and he w^ould beg us to stand back, adding, 
' Children, it is truly ill with me now ; but soon 
I believe it will be right well with me.' Such, 
or similar expressions, always rich in spirit, 
brought tears into our eyes. It is natural to 
weep when we see a fellow-man so strong under 
all weakness. In our house, even in our hearts, 
all was now still ; each one felt that a solemn 
hour was approaching, which was not to be dis- 
turbed by himself or others. Mowes spoke but 
seldom. Monday the 13th came. Renewed 
bleedings marked even this day ; the dear sufferer 
sighed, in heart-rending tones, ' My much-loved 
Lord, come ! wilt thou not come ?' and then, in 
a weaker voice, ' My God, let it be the last time !' 



132 MEMOIR OF THE 

And he who cried was heard. The evening 
came. Madame Mowes and I were to watch by 
him the first half of the night, and our faithful 
servant the second part. We did not expect he 
would leave us that night. After nine o'clock, he 
spoke much to himself, but we could not follow 
his thoughts. He afterwards became more quiet. 
I was exhausted, and retired into the ante-room 
to rest ; if possible, to sleep a little. About 
eleven o'clock, Madame Mowes came in, and 
said — 0, with what a voice ! — ' Ah, he is dying !' 
I went to his couch ; there he lay, with failing 
eyes and closed lips, stiff, pale and dying ; his 
spirit struggling with death. His hands sought 
ours for the last greeting ; he held us fast, his 
dear wife on one side, me on the other. Then I 
called the children, the dear, young, tender 
children, and the faithful Dorothy. No cry of 
sorrow was heard ; nothing disturbed our tran- 
quillity ; our God was among us, and sustained 
us all. We sang the hymn he so loved, ^ Christ 
is my life.' You remember it was his own wish, 
expressed in his ' Parting Words,' that we should 
do so. His wife then read the beautiful hymn, 
commencing, ^ There is a peace at hand.' I 
offered the prayer for the dying, ' Protect us, O 
faithful God, our Father so rich in love,' &c. 
Though his words could no longer express it, 



REV. H. Mi3WES. 133 

his whole appearance indicated joy. The solemn 
moment of departure ever came nearer and 
nearer, yet he remained with us. Hour after 
hour passed away ; w^e trembled at the sight of 
the struggle ; his dear wife and I threw^ ourselves 
beside his couch, and prayed earnestly for his 
deliverance. At last the spirit was released — 
the noble spirit. I asked him, ' Dear Mowes, is 
your Saviour and God still your rod and staff in 
the valley of the shadow of death ?' He turned 
his dying head towards me, and lightly pressed 
my hand in assent. I then pronounced the bene- 
diction over him, and he bowed his head, and 
his spirit departed to her much-loved Lord, and 
found her long-sought home. By me stood a 
widow and two orphans. Adalbert was not 
present, poor child ! At this moment, our dear 
Countess entered the room. It was half-past 
four o'clock. She took the dear dead hand, and 
a stream of still tears fell over it. We sang the 
resurrection hymn, ' The life of Christ consoles 
me.' We stood silent by each other for an 
hour ; the solemnity of his death held our hearts ; 
then the deep, deathlike sorrow of the poor 
widow broke the silence ; the feelings of nature 
would have their right, and who would not 
honour such sorrow? We could only weep 
silently with her. 

12 



134 MEMOIR OF THE 

<^ Why should I describe the days which 
followed till the funeral? You can imagine 
them. Our dear friend was greater than her 
grief; she soon subdued it, and at times her 
faith w^as even triumphant. Frequently, each 
day, we visited the earthly remains of our loved 
friend, and read beside them appropriate pas- 
sages of the Holy Scriptures, or hymns which 
he had particularly loved. A holy task was it 
for us, a Joseph's and a Nicodemus's task, to pre- 
pare the body for its place of rest, and to lay it 
in its last peaceful dwelling. Then came the day 
of burial, Friday. Besides the family of the 
Count, and all the neighbouring clergy, many 
friends, from far and near, were present. We 
sang a hymn suited to the occasion in the house ; 
then we bore his remains out : all was arranged 
as he had directed in one of his hymns. At the 
grave, each one spoke as inspired by his love 
and veneration for him who was gone home. 
Madame Mowes accompanied the remains of her 
beloved husband on their last removal ; neither 
the storm and rain, nor her delicate health, could 
prevent her from doing so. 'He has endured so | 
much more,' said she. We came back ; I read i 
one of his hymns, and gave an account of his | 
death ; then all departed, bearing with sorrow^- ^ 
M love his image in their hearts. God grant i 



REV. H. MO WES. l35 

that our end may be like that of this righteous 
one!" 

Mowes' earthly remains rest among his 
parishioners, and await that day, w^hen the cor- 
ruptible shall put on incorruption. His grave 
is enclosed with green turf, and adorned with 
flowers, which the hand of love tends ; a simple 
stone covers it, bearing as an inscription his own 
lines : — 

"Living and dying, he pointed his flock to Christ; 
Therefore were both life and death welcome." 



We have now traced the wanderer home, and 
with the eye of faith we have seen him sit down 
in those mansions w^hich wdll eventually be our 
own abode, provided his faith be ours, and we 
feel that the path of sorrow need not be a cheer- 
less path. We have looked at the long night of 
the dwellers beneath the polar skies, and have 
thought theirs must be a dismal existence, for- 
getting that the aurora lights up their months 
of darkness with a brilliance unknown to our 
shorter night; but now we have been taught 



136 MEMOIR OF THE 

differently, we have grown familiar with sorrow 
and death, and they are no longer objects of 
dread. We have learned to look at sorrow as 
the cloud spread by a Father's hand to temper 
the glare of prosperity ; it may have been a dis- 
appointment when the distant prospect w^as ob- 
scured by the shade, but it was love that cast 
the shadow, lest the overstrained eye, so fondly 
dwelling on the beautiful without, should lose 
its susceptibility to nearer objects, its power of 
looking within. And death has come before us 
as the last token of our Father's love that we 
shall receive on earth; we have felt his hand 
leading us through eveiy step of our progress, 
and we have rejoiced to be under its guidance ; 
death is but that same hand opening the gate of 
our home. It has long since lost its character 
of chance or destiny. In the true life and im- 
mortality brought to light by the gospel, and 
faintly pictured in the foregoing pages, as 
brought into contact with the human spirit, we 
see it is the same hand which spins the thread 
of life, cuts it: ours is a " covenant ordered in 
all things, and sure." He who can so pre-emi- 
nently bring good out of evil, though he remits 
not the penalty of sin, remits its bitterness ; that 
was endured for us, by Him who once tasted 
death for every man. 



REV. H. MOWES. 137 

The character of Henry Mowes has been for 
the most part brought out in the progress of the 
narrative : his deep spirituaHty and entire con- 
secration cannot fail to be noticed ; his Ufe fur- 
nishes another proof that it is not by compromise 
with the world, but by the high and consistent 
acting out of those principles contrary to its own, 
that it is to be won over to '^ the acknowledging 
of the truth." Mowes was in earnest when he 
laboured for the salvation of his fellow-men ; 
they saw that he was, and their respect and 
affection followed of course. The testimony of 
the physician under whose care he was at Berlin, 
and who was also for some time his kind host, 
is to the point, as showing how the earnestness 
of his character impressed men of the world. 
Writing to the lady who had persuaded Mowes 
to become his patient, he says, '^ I now, indeed, 
know your pastor: if all preachers were like 
him, it would indeed be worth while to learn of 
them. But most of them are different, and think 
of themselves when they speak of God ; but he 
thinks of God alone." 

Mowes' more strictly literary character will 
admit of much higher relief than has been given 
it in the foregoing pages. His course as a 
writer did not commence till a very few years 
before his death ; yet, during that short career, 
12* 



138 MEMOIR OF THE 

he has won to himself a distinguished place 
among the religious poets of his country, rich as 
it is in Christian lyrics. His poems are distin- 
guished by exquisite tenderness, partly, perhaps, 
attributable to the circumstances under which 
they were written. They are the music which 
sorrow ever calls forth from the gifted spirit 
on which it falls. He never set himself to write, 
for the mere sake of versifying. With him, 
poetry was what it ought to be, life : each poem 
in his collection is a fact, from which his life's 
history might be drawn. It was not he who 
chose the subjects; they were given to him by 
the sovereign Hand that dispensed to him good 
and evil. In reading them, we feel no perplex- 
ing distinction between the man and the author. 
They were one ; or rather it might be said, the 
personal experience of the one went far beyond 
the expression given to it by the other. The 
'^ full, rich, fervent strain" yet left the deepest 
feelings unsung. It must often be seen, on 
reading his poems, that powerful thoughts and 
exuberant feelings wrestled with the restraints 
of language, and could not always master 
them. Yet, throughout, the deep, powerful, 
impassioned, and highly Christianized mind 
of their author beautifully shines; and it is 
far more than pleasure that the reader finds 



REV. H. MOWES. 139 

in going over these traces of the now safe- 
landed pilgrim; his own pace heavenward is 
quickened. 



THE END. 



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